


The Path of Virtue

by allthespiceyoullwant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, F/M, Gen, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6407446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthespiceyoullwant/pseuds/allthespiceyoullwant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With every setting of the sun Venice changes. Under the cloak of darkness saints and sinners, maidens and seducers, counts and vagabonds come together to intertwine their fates. In the midst of it all Sansa Stark has to make a decision: Give in to temptation, or follow the path of virtue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

She felt his eyes on her. She wasn't sure how she knew it, but she was sure he was there, in the darkness. Watching her.  
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Every beating of her heart reverberated in her chest like the echo of a song. It seemed to dictate her every move, wash out all caution. Her trembling hands grasped the sheet that covered her and, in one swift motion, pulled it away. The crisp autumn air made her shiver. Or was it her excitement? She didn't know. Without hesitating, she sat straight upright and let her legs dangle from her bed, feeling for her velvet slippers in the darkness. The last thing her father had given her before he had disappeared... She still felt closer to him when she was wearing them.  
The short distance to the balcony seemed to stretch for miles, but she carried her sheet determinately. She knew the parapet was wide enough for her to stand on it. She climbed it, fearlessly. Venice lay below her now, cloaked in darkness and mysteries. The dim lanterns in the streets were not enough to light the city, but she still knew it was there. Her city. Her father's city. She had never felt more free.

Then Sansa Stark lifted her sheet high above her head and let go. The cotton caught the wind and danced through the air, swirling through the night like a ghost of her past. Sansa watched it with a cryptic smile. She did not need it any more. The sheet had warmed her during cold nights, shielded her from unwanted eyes, covered her softly. As if it could protect her from all terrors of the night. But she knew it could not. Nothing could protect her from him.  
Sansa stood on her parapet, letting the wind take hold of her. It threw itself against her with full force, but she stood unmoved. The wind tore on her silk nightdress, lifting the skirt up from time to time, but she paid it no mind. Nobody could see her except for him.  
Long after the sheet had vanished in the darkness, she felt the cold. Her hard nipples were barely covered by the silk fabric of her nightdress. Her hands and feet felt like ice. She knew it was time. Shuddering, she climbed down from the parapet and turned around. “I have been waiting for you.”  
He smiled. “Patience is a virtue.”  
The world crumbled around her until all she could see was him. His features were softened in the darkness, but his deep, blue eyes shimmered like sapphires. The grey streaks in his hair reflected the moonlight and seemed to throw it back at her a thousand times over. The black cloak around his shoulders danced through the night just like her sheet had done, but the wind could not take it from him, as much as it tried. As if he was reveling in this victory over the wind, his soft lips were curled into a smirk.   
Sansa had never seen such beauty. There was no more hesitance. She threw herself in his arms and breathed in the scent of him, the scent of freedom and death. He took her in his arms and wrapped his black cloak around them, and so they stood as one.  
It seemed like a lifetime had passed until she dared speak again. “I know why you are here.”  
His eyes found hers, warm and sincere. The wind swallowed his words, but Sansa heard them all the same. “Do you, now?”  
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Every beating of her heart reverberated in her chest like the echo of a song. Her trembling hands grasped her hair and, in one swift motion, pulled it away. He moved closer until she could feel his breath on her skin. Sansa closed her eyes. “I do.”


	2. Lark

_Four years earlier_

 

“Signorina Stark! Signorina Stark! Oh, in heaven's name, wake up! Signorina Stark!” Her governess's hands grabbed her and shook her violently. “Signorina Stark!”

“I'm awake, Signora Pucelli,”croaked Sansa, still half-asleep. “Please let go of me, or you will tear my clothes off.”

The older woman immediately loosened her grip and looked contrite. “I beg your pardon, my lady,” she immediately asked. “I would not have woken you up unless it was something important.”

A lark was singing outside. It was early in the morning, too early, as far as Sansa was concerned. But the worried tone in her governess's voice alerted her. She sat up and brushed her hair out of her face. Signora Pucelli watched her impatiently, wringing her hands and instantly rearranging the pillows on Sansa's bed. She was in a dreadful state. Her hair was unkempt, her bodice barely laced up in the back. Tears were shimmering in her eyes. It was more than enough to make Sansa realize something was wrong. She took her governess's hands in her own and looked at her seriously. “What has happened?”

Signora Pucelli's nails dug into Sansa's hands as she tightened her grip. “Oh, Signorina Stark,” she whispered in a broken voice. “I am so sorry, but your father has gone missing.”

 

Sansa barely noticed what happened during the next few hours. It was as if she had left her body and floated high into the ceiling, a mere spectator of the events unfolding. Her governess helped her get out of bed and get dressed, brushed her hair and put it into a loose braid, and led her down the stairs of their mansion into the downstairs salon. The two carabinieri that had been sitting on the canape stood up at once when they heard her come in. One of them addressed her. “Signorina Stark. I am afraid I have bad news.”

Until then, the idea had seemed so absurd. Her father could not have gone missing. Sansa had seen him only yesterday. The merchant had returned from a trip to Nice and brought his daughter a beautiful pair of velvet slippers. They had shared a glass of wine in the dining hall before he had excused himself to catch up on his correspondence. He could not have gone missing since then. Sansa refused to believe otherwise.

But while the carabinieri explained to her how her father's gondola had been found floating upside down in a dark canal, Sansa was forced to open her mind to the possibility that her father was truly gone. Giacomo, his gondoliere, had been found dead in a nearby alley. Her father's belongings were scattered next to Giacomo's body. “It was all we have found of him so far, signorina,” admitted the carabiniere. “There is still hope, of course, but...”. He left the sentence unfinished.

Sansa only nodded with a vacant expression. She knew what the man had been too polite to say: That is was more and more likely that her father was dead. The realization came too unexpected. For a moment she felt completely numb. “Thank you”, she heard herself say. “Please do not stop looking for him. I am certain he will be found.” Suddenly she had to fight back tears. Sansa rose. “If you would please excuse me. Signora Pucelli will lead you outside. Good day.” With a swirling of her skirt, she rushed out of the salon and to her bedroom. She locked the door behind her, threw herself on her bed, and cried.

Sansa allowed her tears to flow freely for the better part of the next hour. She felt as if a part of herself had been ripped from her. Catarina, her mother, had died giving birth to her, and her father had raised her himself, all the while tending to his ever-growing business. He had doted upon his daughter since she had been laid into his arms as a baby and worked hard to create a good life for his little dove. Her father was the only family Sansa had. She was determined. She would not let anyone take him away from her.

The face staring back at her out of the mirror was barely recognizable, but when Sansa moved, the face in the mirror moved as well. Sansa was ashamed of herself. Her face was red and swollen from crying so much. She looked like a frightened little girl, not like the nineteen-year-old debutante she was. “This is  _not_ how I want to spend the next days,” Sansa vowed to her face in the mirror and reached for a powder brush. “Crying will not help me. And if my father is missing, I will find him myself.”

 

 


	3. Dove

It was quiet in her father's study. No fire was crackling in the fireplace. The closed windows barred any sound of the birds chirping outside. And no one was sitting at her father's desk, making the chair squeak with every move. No quill was scratching over a piece of parchment. No glass was put back on the desk with a soft  _thump_ after her father had taken a sip.

Everything Sansa could hear was the beating of her heart and her slow, steady breath. She was standing in the door frame, trying to summon the courage to enter the room. It had dawned on her that she had never been here before without her father. Going into his study without him, much worse, looking through his belongings, felt like a breach of trust. But Sansa knew she had to do it. It was her best hope of finding where her father might be. Taking one last, deep breath, she took a step into the room and closed the door behind her.

The memories of so many nights spent here with her father washed over her. Had he not taught her how to read sitting in the brown leather wingback chair by the fireplace? How many times had Sansa stood on the intricately carved ivory chest by the window, craning her neck so she could see the sun set over the sea? When had she stopped hiding behind the damask curtains, trying to scare her father when he was least expecting it? With a sad smile, Sansa let her gaze wander through the room until her eyes locked on her father's desk. The polished mahogany shimmered almost golden in the sunlight. Her father's documents were organized neatly in different piles on top. Somewhere between those stacks of pa rchments there had to be a clue.

But the parchment on top of the first pile had nothing to do with her father's business. Sansa took up the stationery and read:

 

Eduardo Stark

requests the pleasure of your company

at a masked ball to celebrate his daughter

Sansa Stark's

debut into society

Saturday, the seventh of September, 1854

at eight o'clock

Palazzo Diamante

Venice

Italy

 

Sansa had to smile. It seemed like only yesterday when her father had told her he wanted to host a masked ball in her honor. Sansa could still recall the excitement that had surged through her body after his announcement. “A ball? A  _ball?_ Oh fa ther, really?”

Eduardo had softly kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Not just any ball. Your debut into society.” Sansa beamed with joy and pride. “This is so exciting! I am so grateful, father. But the seventh of September! That's barely three months from now! And I still need a new dress and a mask and I have to talk to Signora Pucelli about my hair and–”

Her father put a finger to her lips. “Shhh, my dove. All in good time. You will look radiant, I know it.” His eyes became distant for a moment. “Just like your mother when I first met her...”

Sansa loved nothing more than hearing stories about her mother. “You met her at a masked ball to celebrate  _her_ debut into society, didn't you, father?” He had told her the story countless times, but she still wanted to hear it again.

Eduardo smiled sadly. “I did. And I fell in love with her the moment I laid eyes on her. So I summoned all my courage, walked up to her and said–”

“ 'My lady' ”, Sansa recalled. “ 'I had never imagined there would be a lady half as beautiful as you. May I have the honor of dancing the cotillion with you?' ”

Her father affectionately ruffled Sansa's hair. “Your mother's smile lit up my world. 'Perhaps,' she told me. 'But I must warn you, Signor Stark. It is not a gentlemanly act to whisper hollow compliments into a lady's ear. If you mean what you just said, follow up on your words.' ”

“ 'Red roses,' ” Sansa finished the sentence her mother had spoken to her father when they first met. “ 'Bring me a bouquet of red roses, and you may have this dance.' ”

Eduardo chuckled. “I was not a rich man when I met your mother, dove. And red roses are expensive. So in my despair I climbed the walls of the next garden I saw, collected every single red rose I could find, and brought them back to your mother.” He laughed softly. “We were married the next morning, in a churchyard with cut down rose bushes.”

Remembering the conversation made Sansa smile. Had it really been that long ago? What date was today? She pulled out her father's diary to check the date. It was the seventh of July. God, that meant the ball was two months from now... Sansa had to find her father before that.

She was just about to put her father's diary back when an entry caught her eye. It was written in her father's hand on the page of the sixth of July. The day he had disappeared. “Eleven o'clock: Royal Naval Dockyard.”

 


	4. Sparrow

The rays of the morning sun made the ocean glisten like diamonds. Sansa hid her face under the shadow of her parasol. She was here to observe, not to be seen. The air smelled of salt and tar, and once more it reminded Sansa of so many hours spent with her father, inspecting the wares his ships had brought from all over the world.

The Royal Naval Dockyard was buzzing with commotion. Soldiers, Captains and Lieutenants, builders and constructors were hurrying past Sansa, plying their trade. Had anyone of them seen her father, the night he disappeared? Sansa sighed deeply. There were hundreds of men on the docks, and dozens of sailors leaving or arriving on a ship each day. The chances of finding a man who knew something about her father were meager at best. She would have to start asking around and hope for a streak of good luck. Hopefully without attracting too much attention to herself. Sansa brushed her dark brown hair out of her face and looked for a seaman to talk to. She had no idea who to choose first. It probably would not lead her anywhere anyway.

But then she saw a sailor, not much older than she was. He was sitting on a piece of cargo, eating an apple. His blonde hair was uneven and shaggy, but it did not negate the fact that he was exceptionally handsome. Sansa smiled victoriously. He would be delightful to talk to. She approached him, fluttering her eyelashes at him from under her parasol. Nobody said looking for her father could not be a little fun.

The young man looked up when he sensed her come closer. His eyes widened for a moment, then he tried very hard to appear unimpressed. “Good morning, sailor,” Sansa said with a smile.

He nervously smiled back at her. “Good morning, signorina.”

Sansa pointed at the free space on the piece of cargo next to him. “Mind if I sit?”

“Not at all,” assured the boy. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He hesitated for a moment, then added: “My name is Antonio Gambardelli.”

“Sansa Stark,” replied Sansa. The boy smiled and said nothing, and for a while they were sitting there in silence, watching the sparrows soar through the air.

Sansa waited until she was sure it was a good time to speak. “Tell me, Antonio... were you here two days ago? Around eleven o'clock at night?”

Antonio looked at her and furrowed his brows. “Two days ago? I think so. I don't remember if I was here at eleven, though. Might be I had already left.”

Sansa could not believe her luck. “Is there a chance you saw my father here? Eduardo Stark?”

The sailor's face lit up. “I  _ knew _ your last name was familiar! You are Eduardo's daughter!”

“I am,” confessed Sansa Stark. “I did not know my father was so well-known. As far as I know he never did business at this dockyard.”

“He did not until recently,” chatted Antonio. “But he was always a very welcome man, always very polite and charming. And to answer your question,” he added, “I have seen him here two nights ago. He was talking to a man.”

Sansa had never expected to have so much luck with the first man she talked to. Her voice was shaking. “Do you know the man's name?”

“Of course I do,” nodded the sailor. “His name is Petyr Baelish.”

 

***

 

_ Baelish. Baelish. Baelish. _ Sansa had whispered his name over and over to herself, as if she could somehow summon him if she only said his name often enough. 

_ Baelish. Baelish. Baelish. _ Sansa could not help herself. She loved the way his name dripped off her tongue like honey.

_ Baelish. Baelish. Baelish. _ At this point Sansa was not even sure if she wanted to meet this mysterious man. She had spent so many hours dreaming of him, but she still had no definite way of picturing him. In her mind she saw him as a beautiful stranger, a man who could provide the answers she so desperately searched for. Other times he was a vicious swindler, a man who was every bit responsible for her father's disappearing. Sansa loved and feared them both.

_ Baelish. Baelish. Baelish. _ It had become a ritual, her nightly prayer. She whispered his name into her pillow until sleep took hold of her. After a week she began to wonder if he was waiting for her in the darkness, ready to lead her into her downfall. After three weeks she began to wonder if that would be so bad. What she could not remember was when she had begun to think of him, every time she succumbed to the flaming desire between her legs.

_ Baelish. Baelish. Baelish. _ He was her guardian angel and her worst nightmare. Her salvation and her damnation. Her virtue and her temptation.

And Sansa knew she had to find him.

 


	5. Warbler

Two months had passed since Signora Pucelli had woken her up with the news of her father's disappearance. Two months, and countless hours of asking for her father, hoping for news, praying for his return. But Sansa had come up with nothing. Everywhere she had turned she had found herself in a dead end. Not even Antonio had been able to help her. The day after she had met him, he had signed on board a ship sailing to India. He would not be back again for months. Sansa was no closer to finding her father than she had been eight weeks ago.

The carabiniere's words still rung in her head.  _ There is still hope, of course, but...  _ It had become more and more likely that Eduardo would never return. And with every passing day Sansa grew a little more accustomed to life without her father. As much as she resented it, now she almost enjoyed being the head of the house. Eduardo had always made certain she knew how to conduct his affairs and keep the accounts. And Sansa had a talent for it. Her father's business was flourishing better than ever.

She had been so busy over the past weeks that the pain of her father's disappearance had slowly began to fade away until it was no more than a distant memory. Sansa still missed him dearly, and she was still hoping that one day she would find out what had happened to him. But it did not hurt her any more. She allowed herself to find joy in small things again – the smell of roses, the sound of the wind, the song of a warbler. For the first time since her father had disappeared, Sansa was happy again.

Taking over Eduardo's business and trying to find answers whenever her schedule allowed it left very little time for Sansa's social life. When Signora Pucelli woke her up one morning with a wide smile and a proud look on her face, it took Sansa a moment to realize the cause for it. “My father's ball?” she asked drowsily. “Is it today?”

“Not your father's ball, signorina,” announced her governess, joy shining in her eyes. _“Your_ ball. Now, quick, get up. We have a lot of work ahead of us to get you ready.”

Sansa felt excitement surge through her body despite herself. She had wondered whether or not to cancel the ball in light of the circumstances, but then decided against it. Maybe it would give her father a reason to return to her. And deep inside her she knew there was another reason she did not cancel the ball: Because she was looking forward to it.

 

When she carefully set a foot into the gondola that would bring her to the ball, Sansa was trembling with anticipation. It had taken her almost all day to get ready, but every minute of it had been worth it. Sansa looked spectacular. Her long, dark hair had been brushed until it shone and cascaded down her back in loose curls. Her face was half-hidden behind an elegant mask beset with rubies and diamonds, a single, shining black feather crowning it. From behind the mask her eyes shimmered in the moonlight, beaming with excitement. The only part of her face not covered by the mask was her mouth, and her lips had been painted a luscious red.

The gondola glided quietly through the dark canals toward the palazzo. It gave Sansa enough time to admire her dress for the hundredth time. Signora Pucelli had laced the corset herself, tears glistening in her eyes. “You are a woman now, signorina. Every man will die to dance the cotillion with you tonight.” Her words had meant the world to Sansa. Signora Pucelli was the closest thing she had to mother, and after her father's disappearance Sansa and her governess had formed an even closer bond.

Sansa looked at her corset now and could hardly believe what she saw. It was pressed against her body like a second skin. Every move Sansa made seemed more graceful, more delicate, more regal. Her neckline went just deep enough to let her lush breasts be apparent under the lace of her dress.

The dress itself was the color of ivory, perfectly matching Sansa's skin. An intricate and detailed pattern was embroidered on the bodice in dark-red satin yarn, accentuating every curve of her body dramatically and flowing to her skirt. The fabric of her skirt was dyed beautifully, the ivory seemingly bleeding in the same color as the embroidering. It flowed through the fabric until red was all there was, coming together at the hem to look almost black in the dim light.

“Signorina?” her gondoliere addressed her. “May I help you step on land?”

Sansa smiled. “I must have been so lost in my thoughts that I did not even realize we had arrived. Thank you, Enrico.”

Her gondoliere took Sansa's hand, hidden in a dark-red laced glove, and helped her out of the gondola. “Enjoy your night, signorina.”

 

Sansa danced, and then she danced, and when she was done, she danced some more. Hundreds of people had come. Almost every noble house of Venice was represented. Whenever Sansa turned around another son of a wealthy merchant or patrician family asked her for her hand in the next dance. She always said yes.

Sansa's dancing partners were all handsome, exquisite, excellent dancers. They were polite and charming, and some of them were bold enough to whisper indecencies in Sansa's ear whenever they were holding her close on the dance floor. After a while Sansa stopped counting how many men had asked her to lead her to the cotillion. How should she make a decision? She wanted to dance with them all, but choosing one would mean loosing the others, and Sansa had no idea who was worth it. So she enjoyed being wooed by her suitors, throwing a triumphant smirk at Signora Pucelli from time to time. Her governess was impatiently waiting for Sansa to announce her partner for the cotillion, but Sansa took her time. Maybe she would not dance the cotillion at all, she mused, maybe she would just announce that it was impossible to chose a man after knowing him for barely one night. The thought made Sansa smile.  _ That would be the scandal of the season... _

“My lady...” The whisper was almost inaudible. Sansa spun around. Who had said that?

The man standing before her was no man she had ever seen before, and yet he seemed strangely familiar. His face was hidden behind a plain, black mask, but his eyes lit up his dark exterior. They were almost indecently blue. Sansa could get lost in his eyes alone. But she forced her gaze away from his eyes and across the man's face. He seemed older than the other men she had danced with. Small wrinkles had nestled themselves next to his mouth, and his hair was streaked with grey. Sansa could not help but notice how handsome that made him.

He was dressed modestly, a white shirt, a black dress coat. Black breeches ended in a pair of black boots. The only thing extraordinary about his clothing was the black cloak around his shoulders. It seemed to be woven of darkness itself, softly swaying behind him with every move he made, the fabric whispering to Sansa in a strange tongue.

Sansa could not take her eyes off him.

His eyes were roaming over her body just like her eyes had roamed over his. They feasted themselves on every last detail of her face, followed the pattern of her embroidering, lingered just long enough on her breasts to be deemed inappropriate. Somehow Sansa did not mind.

When he spoke, his voice was as soft as a feather. “I have never seen a lady half as beautiful as you.”

Sansa thought her heart would explode in her chest. All of a sudden it seemed very hot in the room. She swallowed hard. When had her breath begun to speed up like this?

The mysterious man did not wait for her reply. He took Sansa's hand and breathed the softest kiss on it. Sansa felt as though her knees would give in under her any second. He did not let go of her hand for a while, as if he wanted to warm himself on her. Suddenly she noticed that he had exceptionally cold hands. He must have just come in from outside.

“May I have the honor of dancing the cotillion with you?”

Sansa remembered what her mother had answered to this question, on the night of her debut. Hundreds of questions flooded in her mind. Who was this man? What was he doing here? Why did he seem so familiar? She would ask him that, and then  _ maybe _ she would consider dancing with him. Who was this man, anyway, waltzing in here with no introduction and asking to lead her to the cotillion? She would tell him, that jackanapes...

But when she opened her mouth, only one word escaped her lips. It was almost a moan. “Yes...”

 


	6. Nightingale

“I don't know.” Signora Pucelli wrung her hands nervously.

It was just the answer Sansa had excepted. What she had not expected was how much it confused her. “What do you mean, you don't know? Was he not invited?”

“I fear not, signorina,” replied her governess. “I have gone through every invitation we sent out. I know every person we have invited by name. But not him.”

“But how...” Sansa took a deep breath to compose herself. Fear and excitement were dueling inside her. “But how did he get here?”

“I don't know that either, signorina,” admitted the older woman.

The world around her seemed to slow down for a moment until all Sansa heard was the beating of her heart. She knew she had already made her decision. She had made it the moment she laid eyes on him. Now all she had to do was tell Signora Pucelli. Sansa took another deep breath and looked into her governess's eyes. “I will dance the cotillion with him regardless.”

Signora Pucelli threw her hands in the air. “But signorina, please consider what you are saying. You don't know this man! You don't even know his name! I don't even want to imagine the dark and evil things he might have in mind... And how am I supposed to announce you, if I don't know his name?”

“You will think of something, Signora Pucelli, I am sure of it,” replied Sansa politely. “I beg your pardon for making this decision, a decision you may neither understand nor approve. But please, do not spoil this for me. I am very excited about this.”

“That's what I was afraid of, child.” Signora Pucelli shook her head. “But I will not stand in your way. You shall dance the cotillion with him, if that is what you wish for.” She sighed deeply and moved toward the string quartet.

Sansa stood there for a moment, unmoved. She could not explain what had drawn her to this mysterious man. Whatever it was, she was powerless to withstand it. Powerless, and unwilling...

The music stopped, and one of the musicians stood up and cleared his throat. “Signore e signori,” he announced in a loud voice. The room instantly fell silent. “Signorina Stark and her partner invite you to dance the cotillion. ”

He sat down again and the room erupted in whispers “Her  _partner?_ Who is this man? Why wouldn't she tell us his name?” Sansa felt the eyes of everyone in this room on her, judging her. Oh, it would be the talk of Venice tomorrow, she was sure of it. The thought was exhilarating and shameful at the same time. But Sansa pushed it aside. She had no time to think about this now. Now there was nothing left but to dance.

The mysterious stranger appeared as if from nowhere, on the far end of the room. With a knowing smile on his lips, he walked straight towards Sansa. His eyes never let go of hers. In his arms was a bouquet of red roses.

The room was completely silent now. Everyone had their eyes locked on this man, his black cloak dancing behind him, making his way across the room.

Everything about him was elegant, the way he moved, the way he held his head, the way he smiled at her. Sansa felt herself blushing. There was no one she wanted to dance the cotillion with except him.

When he had reached her, he sank on one knee in front of her and took her hand. “These roses could never match your beauty, my lady. I hope you will accept them nonetheless.”

Sansa only nodded, too excited to speak. The stranger softly kissed her hand and handed her the roses. They smelled beautifully. “Thank you, signor,” Sansa managed to whisper.

He rose to his feet. “My lady, allow me to dance the cotillion with you.”

Sansa just stared at him, speechless by this man, lost in his dark aura. The room held its breath. Then she heard Signora Pucelli clear her throat. Suddenly Sansa remembered her manners. She smiled at the man. “It would be my pleasure.” Signora Pucelli discreetly took the roses from Sansa. “Please be careful with them,” Sansa asked. “They are very beautiful.”

Her governess merely nodded, her eyebrows furrowed in concern.

Sansa turned to the stranger. “I am yours, signor.”

His lips curled in a smile for a moment. He took her hand in his and held it tight. With the other hand he grasped her by the waist and pulled her close to him, so close... Sansa let out a soft sigh. His body still seemed strangely cold, but Sansa was probably just imagining it. It must be her nerves.

The music set in, and they began to dance. It only took Sansa a few beats to realize that this dance was unlike any other dance she had danced that night. No one had moved as graciously to the music as he did. No one had led her so confidently. No one had made her feel more like a queen.

As if he had read her thoughts, the man laughed softly. “I hope I am able to outdo my rivals. From what I saw, I had quite the competition.” He swirled her around.

Sansa closed her eyes and let him lead her to the music. When she looked up at him again, she noticed a hunger in his blue eyes, but it was gone after half a heartbeat. “None of them were half as good a dancer as you,” she assured him with a smile. “Where did you learn to dance like this, signor?”

But the man only smiled and lifted Sansa up, spinning her through the air. His hands were firmly clutched around her waist, his eyes locked in hers, reassuring her he would keep her safe. For a moment Sansa felt free like a bird, soaring through the air. She had to giggle. A part of her hated how safe she felt in his arms. She did not know him well enough for this. But another part, a bigger part, loved it more than anything. Sansa could not help herself. With every step they took, he lured her deeper and deeper. Where, she could not say.

After the quartet had played the last note, the man took Sansa's hand again and kissed it. The touch of his lips sent a wave of fire through her body. “Thank you for this dance, my lady.”

“It was my pleasure,” replied Sansa breathlessly. She was still trembling from the dance, from this man, from his kiss. “Would you like to join me on the balcony? I need some fresh air.”

For a second there was this look of hunger in his eyes again. “How could I say no to you, my lady?” He offered her his arm and led her outside, the eyes of her guests following them.

It was a warm night. The moon was almost full. The man led her to a secluded corner of the balcony and for a few moments they just stood there in silence. A nightingale sang in the distance. Sansa listened to its song, absentmindedly, still trying to catch her breath. He let his gaze wander over the dark canal below them and said nothing. After a while he turned around again, and his eyes found hers. They seemed warmer now than they had inside. It only made him more beautiful. Sansa had to smile.

“You are smiling a lot, my lady,” the stranger observed. “If I was not so modest, I would think I was the cause of it.”

“You _are_ the cause of it, signor,” replied Sansa. She had no idea what made her so bold all of a sudden, but she liked it. “I can only hope I will be able to return the favor.”

The man just looked at her with a cryptic expression on his face. Once more his eyes roamed over her face, and once more Sansa noticed the hunger in them. “Maybe you will be, one day.”

Sansa contemplated this for a moment, but she did not know what to make of it. She decided to let it slide. She had another question on her mind. “Tell me, signor,” she asked. “How is it that a man like you, whose manners are impeccable, has led a young woman like me to the cotillion without even introducing himself first? I know a lot of people who would deem this behavior very ungentlemanly.”

“And are these people here tonight?” His voice had a mocking tone.

“Yes, some of them,” admitted Sansa. _He's astute_ , she realized. She liked that he had answered her question with another question.

The man smiled. “Then maybe you should have danced the cotillion with them.”

Sansa laughed softly. “I do not regret my decision, signor. You are an excellent dancer.”

“There are many things I excel at, my lady,” murmured the stranger. “Maybe you will know this one day.” He did not wait for her reply and simply turned his gaze toward the canal again, seemingly lost in thought.

Ambition rose in Sansa. She could not tell when their conversation in the moonlight had turned into a duel of their wits, but she knew she had to win it. Slowly she raised her hand and put it on his cloak, just for a moment, letting the material flow through her fingers. It was as if it came alive under her touch. She had never felt anything like it. He turned around again and looked at her, his smirk challenging her to counter him. Sansa let go of his cloak. The material seemed to shine where she had put her hands on it. “And I had thought you were modest, signor.” She batted her eyelashes at him, teasingly.

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Modesty is not at par to false testimony.”

Sansa wound a lock of her hair around her finger, thinking about this. “And what is it, if not false testimony, to accompany a lady to a moonlit balcony without telling her your name?”

“It is a deception,” replied the stranger matter-of-factly, “in the hopes that the lady will be too distracted by the beauty of this night to ask about such mundane things as my name.” He moved closer. Sansa heard the fabric of his cloak rustle. The stranger was so close now... Sansa held her breath. Her eyes closed without her ever noticing it. She parted her lips...

Suddenly she felt his hand on the small of her back, rather unexpectedly. She flinched, but he did not take his hand away. Then she realized his other hand was gently cupping her face now. She had no idea when he had put it there. Somehow that made her open her eyes again. She saw him, his lips mere inches away from hers. Hunger burned from his eyes. Sansa felt his breath on her lips now. Heat flowed through her veins like molten gold. She felt aflame with longing...

Sansa turned away from him and took a step back, trying to fight back the desire that had taken hold of her. It was the hardest thing she ever had to do. She averted her eyes. “It is disreputable to play with a young woman like this, signor,” she whispered, defeated. “I am only a young girl, and propositions like this confuse me.”

He had seemed surprised by her drawback at first, but now he was every bit the composed stranger Sansa knew. He smiled enigmatically. “Miss Stark, you may be young, but you must be one of the brightest women I have ever met. Do not pretend to be a foolish girl. It does not suit you.”

Her ambition returned. _This is getting more and more interesting_ , Sansa thought.  _So he thinks he knows me..._ She leaned closer to him again, hoping she could withstand the urge to finally feel his lips on hers. “And what makes you think that?” she whispered. “Have you not only met me an hour ago?”

His eyes were locked in hers, cold and deep and hungry. “I have been watching you for far longer than you know, Sansa.”

His words sent a shudder down Sansa's spine. Her mind raced. Suddenly breathing seemed incredibly exhausting. There was only one question left to be asked. Sansa steeled herself. “Who are you?” she croaked.

The man lifted his hand and traced the outline of her trembling lips with his thumb. When he spoke, his voice was cold as ice. “Petyr Baelish.”

Her emotions crashed over her like a wave. Sansa felt nothing, and everything at once.

When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

 


	7. Chaffinch

Signora Pucelli had never asked. For that, Sansa was immeasurably grateful. She would not have known what to tell her governess. That she had fallen in love with the man who had killed her father? Or merely that she had danced with a stranger who may have talked to her father, the night he had disappeared? Sansa did not know. She had no idea what the truth was. In her heart she feared it was the first scenario. In her mind she refused to believe it. But then his words echoed through her head...  _“I have been watching you for far longer than you know, Sansa...”_ It still made her skin crawl. She had racked her brain wondering where and when he may have been watching her, what he may have seen, what secrets she might have shared with him already. Beyond anything else, she had wondered why. Who was this man? She had no answers.

But she kept searching for them relentlessly. All her energy went into finding Petyr again. She told herself she did it so she could ask him about her father. After three weeks of searching, she almost believed herself.

The door in front of her was plain, made of oak, and absolutely terrifying. Sansa hesitated for a moment before she put her hand on it. She wanted to feel this door under her trembling fingers for a moment, as if that could somehow prepare her for what was awaiting her on the other side of it. The wood was cold and damp from the nightly fog. It felt rough and coarse, as if she could catch a splinter if she was not careful enough. Sansa shuddered and pulled her hand back. The door had told her no secrets. She would have to uncover them herself. She took a long, hard look over her shoulder. But she was alone in the alley. Only a chaffinch took flight in the distance. Sansa turned back to the door and knocked three times. The door opened.

There was nothing there but darkness, and the moist, warm smell of sin. Cautiously Sansa took a step forward. She still had time to run, she told herself. If she turned around now and ran far, far away from this place and never came back, she would forget she had ever been here. She still had time to run. But she never did.

Darkness was all around her now. Sansa almost felt as if it had crept inside her as well. “Hello?” she called into the nothingness before her, her voice squeaking like a mouse. For a while no one gave answer, and then–

“He is waiting for you,” whispered the voice of a young girl. Sansa wanted to open her mouth to scream, but she thought better of it. She held her breath and listened, but the voice of the little girl was gone. Or had it maybe never been there? The mind plays cruel tricks sometimes, and the darkness frightened her more than she cared to admit. Had she just been imagining it?

But then she heard to voice again. “Don't be scared.”

“Who are you?” Sansa stretched out her arms and tried to feel for the child in the darkness, but all her hands grasped was empty air. “Tell me your name!”

The voice replied. “Follow the light, Sansa. He is waiting for you.”

And just at that moment, a dim light began to shine in the darkness. It got brighter and brighter until it was bright enough to light her surroundings. Sansa was standing at the start of a long, damp tunnel. It seemed to twist and turn its way deeper and deeper into the ground. Its walls were covered in slick, green moss. For a moment it seemed as if the tunnel itself was breathing.

Sansa swallowed hard and walked straight into the tunnel, letting it lead her somewhere she had never expected to go.

As she was following the light, Sansa thought back to how she had found herself in this strange place. She had not found Petyr Baelish, as much as she tried. Until the letter. It was delivered to Sansa three weeks after the ball. Petyr had written to thank Sansa for the dance and expressed his desire to see her again. But he had not said when and where.

Sansa had been brooding over the meaning of the letter for days until Signora Pucelli caught a glimpse of it. “It's strange, but if you take the first words of each paragraph and put them together, it gives a sentence,” she observed. “What a funny little coincidence.”

And with a beating heart and trembling fingers Sansa had pieced the sentence together: “When the night falls, where the angels meet, come to me.”

Four days later Sansa had stood on the corner of Via Michele and Strata San Gabriele and put her hand on a plain, wooden door as the sun was setting behind her.

The air got warmer all of a sudden, and Sansa felt as if the tunnel became less steep. And she was right: After the next curve the tunnel opened into an underground cavern. Sansa halted for a moment to drink in the beauty of this place. The cavern was gigantic, at least as far Sansa could see. It was lit by thousands of candles, set in nooks, put on the ground, hanging in chandeliers from the ceiling. Some candles seemed to float in the air as if held up by invisible, unmoving hands. They filled the room with shadows that danced over the glistening walls. The warmth chased all darkness from Sansa's bones until she felt herself bright and shining. It soothed her more than she could say. She almost felt safe here.

Sansa determinately set one foot in front of the other and walked on. Her steps echoed from the walls. It was the only noise she heard. “Hello?” she asked, hoping to hear the little girl's voice again.

“Good evening, Sansa.” It was not the little girl. It was a man's voice. _His_ voice. It sent a surge of ecstasy through her veins. And suddenly she saw him standing there, only a few steps away. It was the first time Sansa saw him without a mask, but there was no mistaking him. He was wearing the same clothes as the day they met, the same long, black cloak, falling from his shoulders like a waterfall. The candles threw eerie shadows over his face, but his eyes shone as blue as ever, burning with hunger. He was smiling. “I have been waiting for you.”

 


	8. Blackbird

He was very handsome. Sansa hated that. She hated every exquisite line on his face, the small, delicate wrinkles around his eyes that gave away his age. She hated his perfect nose, his full hair, his soft lips. She hated it because it made it impossible for her to hate him.

So she crossed her arms and just stared at him out of cold, furious eyes. Petyr owed her an explanation, and she would stand here defiantly until he gave it to her, no matter how long it took.

His eyes roamed over her face again, as if he was trying to read her mind, to evaluate the situation. Sansa pursed her lips.  _Say something, you bastard._

“You have received my letter,” he finally stated. “I am glad of that.” Then he fell silent again and continued looking at her out of deep, mysterious eyes.

Sansa arched an eyebrow. “Yes, I  _received_ your letter. And I deciphered it.” Her voice was dripping with disdain. “Most people would have sent an invitation.”

A faint smile flashed over Petyr's lips, but it was gone in a heartbeat. He looked at her with an unreadable expression. “I am not like most people.”

Sansa laughed bitterly. “Yes, I am beginning to notice that.” She looked around the cavern disapprovingly. Why had he invited her  _here_ of all places?

Petyr slowly took a step toward her, but he was still not close enough to touch her. Sansa took comfort in that. “I had to know if you really wanted to see me. Every woman can receive an invitation. Only extraordinary women can find them.”

Sansa was not sure whether to be flattered by the compliment or offended by his inference. “I did not come here because I wanted to see you,” she hissed. “I came here because I wanted an explanation.”

“And you shall have it, Sansa,” he promised. “But first, may I ask you to dinner?”

“ _What?_ ” The word had escaped her lips before she could stop herself. Sansa bit her lower lip. It was not a very polite response. But considering the situation, she felt only slightly guilty about her lapse of decorum.

“Dinner,” Petyr repeated with a jovial tone in his voice. He did not seem to mind her slip either. “I would like to have dinner with you. Tonight.”

Sansa was still confused. “Why?”

Petyr took another step toward her. “Because I would like to get to know you better.” He took up a strand of Sansa's hair and let it run through his fingers for a moment before he gently tucked it behind her ear. The tender gesture took Sansa by surprise, but she let it happen. It felt so nice. So... intimate. “I enjoyed dancing with you, Sansa,” continued Petyr. “I believe you are a fascinating person, an excellent dancer, and a sharp-witted conversationalist.”

“Huh,” replied Sansa, dumbfounded.

Petyr chuckled. “This assessment is not based on tonight.”

Suddenly Sansa realized the unintentional humor in the situation. She had to laugh. It was all so surreal. She looked at Petyr, who grinned back at her. She took a deep breath. “And then you will answer my questions?” Sansa asked warily.

“I promise.” Petyr sounded sincere.

Sansa was tempted to say yes, but she did not know if she should. But it would be better than standing here and staring at him, she told herself. And she  _was_ rather hungry. And she could still scowl at him over dinner... She sighed. “Yes.”

“I am happy to hear that,” replied Petyr. He offered her his arm, and Sansa took it hesitantly. Petyr led her to a dark shape on the far end of the cavern. As they got closer, Sansa realized what it was. But why would that–? Then she saw. A surprised laugh sprang from her throat. “There is a _lake_ down here?” This was almost absurd.

Petyr helped her into the gondola. “I am glad I could surprise you.” He pushed the boat off and began navigating across the still, dark water.

Sansa was sitting in perfect silence, letting the gondola softly rock her back and forth. Of all the things she had expected, sitting in a shining black gondola with golden adornments and blood red velvet cushions was not one of them. A smile spread on her lips. Sansa was feeling herself falling for this man despite herself.

Then doubts began to blossom. No one knew she was here. She had no idea where Petyr would take her. Whatever he had planned for them tonight, she was completely and utterly at his mercy. But somehow Sansa could not imagine that she was in danger. The night was too beautiful. She felt too safe with Petyr. So she sat in silence, listening to her heart beat in her chest, and wondered what secrets the night might uncover.

When they reached the shore, Petyr chivalrously helped her step on land. They were in the open now, and a soft breeze of wind immediately took Sansa's hair and played with it. In the moonlight she saw that they were in a small, secluded bay. The lights of a village gleamed on the cliffs above them. Sansa doubted she had ever been here before. “We are not in Venice any more, are we?” she asked Petyr.

He smiled. “You are very observant. No, we are not. But if you want to go back you just have to tell me. One word, and I will take you back home, I swear it.”

Sansa shook her head. “No. I came here to have dinner with you. Let us eat.” With every passing moment, she relaxed a little more in his presence. Whatever it was Petyr would tell her, she hoped it would take him a few hours.

Again Petyr offered his arm, and again Sansa took it. This time, she did not hesitate. Petyr walked her to a flight of stairs hewn in the stone and together they ascended until the bay lay below them. After a short walk through the village's winding alleys they stood in front of a cozy-looking tavern. Petyr opened the door. “After you, my lady.”

Sansa felt at home here at once. The tavern was full of people, talking to each other in hushed voices, drinking beer and wine and water, eating foods that looked delicious. At a big table, a group of men were roaring with laughter over a story the waiter had told them. In a secluded corner a young couple was sharing tender kisses. A small band was playing near the bar. Sansa had to smile. This tavern was full of life.

They were seated at a table not far from the entrance. It was secluded enough so no one would be paying too much attention to them, but still central enough for them to watch what was going on and feel the energy of the place. Petyr ordered wine for both of them, and after the waiter had filled their glasses, he raised his. “To a wonderful night, Sansa.” He smiled. “I am glad I am here with you.”

Sansa raised her glass as well. “To a wonderful night,” she echoed and took a sip. The wine was sweet and delicious and reminded Sansa of the wine she had during her ball. It made her remember why she had come here, and a flash of guilt washed over her. She averted her eyes for a moment. An hour ago she had scowled at Petyr, furious, and vowed herself she would not move until he had given her an explanation. And now she was sitting here. At least there were people here, she told herself. It meant she was safe.

Petyr must have sensed Sansa's discomfort. “I promised you answers, Sansa,” he said in a low voice, “and you were kind enough to have patience. Now let me follow up on my end of the bargain.”

Sansa looked up and into his eyes. For the first time she noticed a tenderness in his expression she had not seen before. It frightened her a little and soothed her a lot.

Petyr continued. “I am sorry I did not tell you my name sooner. I know I should have.”

The scene on the balcony rushed back into Sansa's mind. “Why did you not?”

Petyr sighed deeply and said nothing for a while. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before. “Because I knew you would not have danced with me if I had.”

Sansa thought about this for a moment. But if she was honest... “No, I would have danced the cotillion with you. Even if I had known your name.”

He narrowed his eyes in surprise for a moment. “You are bolder than I would have thought.”

His words confused Sansa. “Is is not bolder to dance with a man you do  _not_ know? A man who is a stranger?”

Petyr opened his mouth, as if to speak, but then he seemed to think better of it and merely smiled cryptically. “You are right, Sansa.”

Sansa knew with absolute certainty that she was not right. At least not in Petyr's eyes. She let her gaze wander through the tavern and thought about this for a moment, wondering if she should ask him what he meant. But then another question rushed through her mind. She looked at Petyr. “But why were you at the ball in the first place? You were not invited.”

Mischief flickered in Petyr's eyes. “Ah, yes. I am afraid I paid the guards a nice sum to let me in without an invitation.” He smirked, seemingly enjoying his cunning for a moment. “I am glad I did.”

Sansa's mind seemed to explode with thousands of thoughts. Why did he bribe her guards? How had he even known of the ball? How had even even known of her? Had he been following her? Was that why he had seemed so familiar? Was it all part of a wicked plan? Was he dangerous? Was she not safe? And the one question she could not ask him, the one that drowned out all the other questions: Why did Sansa hope that the answer to her last questions was  _Yes_ ?

To compose herself Sansa took a sip of wine. All this time Petyr's eyes did not leaver her face. They hungrily followed every twitch of her mouth, every flutter of her eyelashes, roamed over every detail of her countenance. Sansa felt herself blush. Why did that man make her feel so beautiful? She shook her head and pushed her thoughts aside. She needed a change of scenery to clear her mind, now. “Come on,” she told Petyr. “Let us take a walk. It is too crowded in here.”

Petyr's face gave away no emotion. He simply nodded. “Whatever you wish, my lady.” He stood up and led her outside.

Sansa took his arm as if they had been doing this for years. They walked through the empty streets and alleys in silence. Only the moon watched over them. It was a beautiful night. Stars glistened in the sky like thousands of diamonds. High up in a tree, a blackbird cooed sleepily. Sansa hated how much she loved being here. After a short walk they reached a terrace in the cliffs, overlooking the ocean. It took Sansa by surprise. Had Petyr led her here or was that just a coincidence?

She looked at his face, but it gave away nothing. He had his eyes focused on the horizon, dreamily watching a ship in the distance. Sansa could not take her eyes off him. She sighed. Why was he so beautiful? As if it was not hard enough to be wary in his presence already. It reminded her of the night of her ball. Then, too, they had found themselves standing alone in the moonlight, sharing the silence together. But still, tonight was different. Last time, Sansa had known nothing about this man. He had been nothing but a beautiful, mysterious stranger. And this time... this time she knew his name. Yet that made him no less of a stranger to her.

It seemed like hours had passed until Sansa found the courage to speak. “When we last spoke, you told me you had been watching me for far longer than I knew,” she reminded Petyr in a low, soft voice. She did not want to ruin this moment, but she had to ask. Her voice began to shake with doubts. She did not even want to hear the answer to this question. But she asked it all the same. “Why?”

Petyr turned toward her. For a long while he said nothing. He just looked at her with an enigmatic smile on his lips. Sansa stared at him uncertainly. She feared his answer more than she could say, but she had to know. When he still did not answer her, she took a step closer. “Petyr,” she whispered. “Please...”

But Petyr did not respond. Instead he gently took her in his arms and wrapped his cloak around her. “You are shivering, sweetling,” he murmured softly and gently kissed her on the forehead.

She was not shivering because of the cold, but Sansa did not tell him. How could she? She never wanted to leave his arms. She had never been so close to Petyr before. Sansa's heart beat faster. His scent filled her nose. It was seducing and intoxicating and impossible to describe. Sansa buried her face in his chest and took a deep breath. Petyr must have been freezing, as cold as he felt. Her arms embraced him before she could stop herself.

Sansa did not know how long they stood like this. Maybe it was minutes, maybe hours. It was so easy to forget everything else when she was in his arms. But she could not forget  _this_ . As much as she tried, the question came back to her. When Sansa realized she had lost the fight with her mind, she took a deep breath and looked up at him. It was time she learned the truth. “You still owe me an explanation.”

Petyr's eyes found her. Somehow they seemed sad. He sighed deeply. “Leave me some secrets, sweetling,” he whispered, almost apologetically.

Sansa wanted to protest, but suddenly his hands were on her face, cupping it gently, and his face was inches way from hers. And for a moment time stood still.

She looked up at Petyr, trying to calm the storm inside her. It was not too late to turn away from this man. If anything it was most indecent, to stand on a moonlit terrace with a stranger in the middle of the night. She was Eduardo Stark's daughter, after all. She could have her pick of any of Venice's most eligible bachelors. She could be married within a fortnight, if that was what she desired... But right here, right now, there was nothing she desired more than to be his. With every heartbeat she felt herself succumb to this man, unwilling to resist him. She knew it was wrong, she knew it was dangerous, she knew it was madness. But she did not care. Sansa leaned in and closed her eyes.

When he finally put his lips on hers she lost all caution. Sansa gave him all she was, and he took everything willingly. He tasted of mint.

For the first time in her life, all her questions had been answered.

 


	9. Linnet

Whenever she closed her eyes she could feel Petyr's lips on hers again, and every time she ached with longing. But Sansa knew it was foolish. She should never have let it happen. There were still so many mysteries. In the light of day they did not seem romantic and seductive at all. They seemed dangerous. And that was  _not_ good, Sansa reminded herself for the hundredth time. It was so easy to forget.

She took a sip of tea and grimaced. It tasted cold and bitter. Sansa rolled her eyes. She had forgotten to take the tea leaves out. Again. Running the business was much more exhausting than her father had led her to believe. But it was also so much more enjoyable than she would have thought. And it was far better than wasting her time thinking about Petyr... which she still did more often than she wanted to admit.

Sansa sighed and pushed the cold tea to the edge of her father's desk. Or was it her desk now? Would she ever see her father again? There were still so many questions unanswered. Sansa blamed herself. How could she have let Petyr seduce her like this? How could she have made it so easy for him? She had practically thrown herself at him... It was so embarrassing. At least she had not seen him again since then. It was small consolation. Petyr had taken her home, just as he had promised, and Sansa had courteously wished him a good night, turned away, and locked the door behind herself.

The next morning her suspicions had began to blossom. The night with Petyr had raised an abundance of questions and answered but a few. Sansa had sworn herself that when she saw Petyr again— _if_ she saw him again—she would get her answers, all of them. And for that, she had to be prepared. So she had put her quill to parchment and started writing, just like she had always done when she was lost. And a short time later she had sorted her thoughts.

Sansa knew she was ready for him now.

 

***

 

Petyr picked her up at home this time, for all the world to see. Sansa thought that was a good sign. He even bandied a few words with Signora Pucelli while helping Sansa put on her cloak. Her governess had a wary expression on her face, but she said nothing until Petyr wished her a pleasant evening. “We shall see,” answered Signora Pucelli in an ominous voice. She took a step forward and took Petyr by the shoulder. “Take good care of my child, signor.” Her tone made clear it was not a question.

Petyr politely took her hand away from his shoulder and held it for a moment. “Sansa can take care of herself, signora,” he replied with a smile. “And she is not a child any more. Good bye.” Before Signora Pucelli could respond, he kissed her hand and turned to Sansa. “Shall we go?”

Sansa's heart beat faster. She took his arm. “Yes, please.”

It was a warm, sweet night. The last rays of the setting sun painted the city pink. But Sansa had no mind for this beauty. All she could think about was what she would ask him, as soon as they were alone. This time she would not let him fool her. This time she would not yield.

Sansa had thought about this night thoroughly. They would have to meet somewhere close to her home, she had decided. This way she would be able to leave whenever she wanted to. And it would have to be somewhere she felt safe and secure. She had to keep a clear head. But still... it had to be secluded. She did not want to share Petyr with anyone but the night.

After all that only one location had been possible: Her father's old cottage by the port. Whenever one of his ships had returned from a journey, he had stayed here until the ship had been unloaded. Then he had listed his wares, determined prices, found buyers... All in his cottage. Her father's ghost was still so present here. And Sansa needed it to keep her focused.

A small garden lay behind the cottage, overlooking the port. How many times had Sansa sat here with her father, watching the ships come and go? How often had she been happy here? One summer she had found an injured bird here and tended to its wounds. The linnet still came to this garden every day. The memory made Sansa smile. This place meant everything to her. As she sat down on her favorite bench in the garden, the last rays of the sun shining warm on her face, she knew she could be strong here.

Petyr had said little since he had come to pick her up, but by now Sansa was used to this. She knew he only spoke when he had something to say. But his eyes had followed her every move hungrily... Sansa had noticed that too.

When Petyr broke the silence, it caught her by surprise. “My lady,” he murmured. “You are more beautiful tonight than ever.”

Sansa did not allow herself to think about it. She would not let him confuse her again. She forced herself to look into his eyes, looking unimpressed. “This is not the time for empty compliments,” she reminded him. “This is the time for truth.”

He smiled cleverly. “Oh, but it is the truth. You  _ are _ more beautiful tonight than–”

Sansa put a finger to his lips. “Don't say that, signor. I will not be fooled again.”

He took her hand in his and tried to hold it. Sansa pulled her hand away as if she had burned herself. “I am serious, Petyr. No more flattery.”

Petyr smiled, and for the first time Sansa noticed that it did not reach his eyes. “I see my lady is serious.” He sighed. “Very well, then. What truths do you desire, sweetling?”

The mention of her pet name sent a wave of heat through her veins. She allowed herself one short, sweet moment of sinful temptation before she pushed the thought aside. She had to be cold and analytical. She had to ask the questions she had come to ask. Sansa steeled herself and looked into Petyr's deep, blue eyes. “Were you talking to my father, the night he disappeared?”

Something flickered in Petyr's eyes for a moment, but it was gone before Sansa could determine what it was. He stretched out his arm, as if to take her hand again, but then seemed to think better of it and ran a hand through his hair instead. Sansa watched him impatiently. Petyr's gaze roamed over the horizon, then back to Sansa, then oven the horizon again. Suddenly his lips curled into a smirk. “Yes,” he merely said.

Sansa felt nothing. She had known that her father had talked to Petyr all along. Somehow she had expected it to feel different when she heard him confess it, as if something was suddenly clearer than before. But everything was still the same. “What happened?”

The smile on Petyr's lips faded away. He looked at her, his eyes suddenly cold and cruel. “Do you really want to know that, sweetling?” His voice had a sharp edge. 

Sansa held her breath. Everything was different now. She felt it in her bones. “Yes.”

Petyr's eyes narrowed. Sansa had never seen him look so calculating before. “He died.”

Her world seemed to stop. She had known it all along. She had known her father was dead. Sansa wanted to cry, to scream, to curse, but what good would that do? It would not bring Eduardo back. Nothing could ever bring him back. All Sansa could do now was find out what had happened, every last excruciating detail, and then go to sleep and pray she would never wake up again. She looked through the garden, this garden where she had always been so happy. But now the flowers had lost their color. All Sansa could see was nothingness. When she finally found her voice again, it was broken and flat. “You killed him.” She already knew the answer.

Petyr averted his eyes. “I was... not entirely innocent in his demise.”

For some reason his answer made Sansa furious. She was unable to sit next to this man any more. She forgot all manners and sprang to her feet. “What does that mean?” She was screaming now.

Petyr looked at her, tender and caring. He took her hand. “Sweetling, please don't shout.”

Sansa pulled her hand away and slapped him across the face. “Do not touch me. Do not tell me what to do. Tell me what happened.”

Petyr sighed deeply. “Very well, then,” he answered, his voice void of all emotion. “Your father made the unfortunate decision to attack me. In the ensuing fight I wounded him, and he fell into the canal and drowned.”

Sansa was numb. All she could think about was how small she felt. The world was so huge, and she was so small. Why had she never noticed that before? It drove her mad. Petyr's cruel words seemed unimportant in comparison to how small she felt. Sansa wondered if she would feel pain later, or if she would just feel small from now on, all her life, until she died. Suddenly she remembered that she wanted to ask Petyr a question. She had to concentrate very hard to think of something to ask him. Finally she brought herself to ask, “Why did my father attack you?” 

Petyr smiled coldly, as if he was mocking her naivete. “He disagreed with my plan concerning his gondoliere.”

_ Giacomo. _ He had not been their gondoliere long before he died. Sansa had never really gotten to know him. But now she remembered him, his wide smile, his flaming red hair, the freckles on his face.  _ He had a scar on his left hand. He always told me one day he would tell me how he got it. _ But that would never happen now. Suddenly a mad thought popped into Sansa head. She remembered stories Signora Pucelli had told her when she was a little girl, she remembered an opera she had seen with her father not long ago. But that was fiction, she told herself. It could not be... Or could it? Then she remembered how cold Petyr had always felt. And the strange cavern he had invited her to. It seemed more and more possible... But Sansa refused to believe it. There had to be a different explanation. She looked at Petyr, doubtful and uncertain. He held her gaze, his expression as cryptic as ever. Sansa had never been more afraid in her entire life. But now it was too late to run. Now she had to uncover the truth. All of it, all its gruesome details. “What was your plan with Giacomo?” she croaked. 

It was as if Petyr had read her thoughts. “You already know that, sweetling, don't you?”

“No...” Sansa's voice was hollow. If she had not known it before, she knew it now. “No,” she whispered again. “No, it can't be...  _ You _ can't be...” She could not bring herself to finish the sentence, she could not find it in her to call him by his name. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. She let them flow. What did it matter now?

Petyr wiped a tear from her cheek. Sansa hated how much his touch still made her tremble. When she did not slap his hand away, Petyr slowly took a step toward her. Before Sansa could protest he wrapped his arms around her. “No,” Sansa whispered into his chest, but she did not push him away. His scent filled her nose again. Sansa wondered if there were more of his kind. She wondered if they all smelled so sweet... Sansa felt so guilty for feeling like this. Her face was wet with tears now, but she did not have the power to stop crying. So she let herself mourn her father and Giacomo and the terrible secret of her mysterious stranger.

Petyr was still holding her long after Sansa's tears had finally dried. She wished she had the strength to push him from her and flee. But she just could not find it in her, as desperately as she looked. It all seemed so meaningless. So she clung to Petyr as if she was drowning and he was all that could save her. Sansa resented herself for her weakness.

Petyr gently stroked her head. “I am so sorry, sweetling.” His touch was tender and caring.

Sansa wanted to hate this man with every fiber of her being. She told herself what he had done. Who he was. How much he deserved her hate. But it was too exhausting. She hoped he would never let her go. “You're a monster,” she whispered.

Petyr sighed deeply and continued to stroke her head. “That's a tad dramatic, don't you think?”

“No,” whispered Sansa.

Petyr chuckled and said nothing. It seemed like hours had passed before he softly kissed her forehead. “My love. It is time.”

_ No _ , Sansa thought again.  _ No. This can't be what I think it is...  _ But when she looked up at his face, she knew. “This is why you told me everything,” she said, defeated. “Because you knew I could never tell anyone else.” She thought she should run away, but she just did not want to leave him. She felt so safe in his arms, even though she knew that was madness. Maybe she could flee from him in a few minutes...

Petyr said nothing. He gently let his fingers run over her face, up and down. He traced her eyebrows, he stroked her nose. He let his thumb run over her trembling lips. After a while it was all Sansa could think about. She closed her eyes and focused on the sweet trail his fingers left. His touch was so gentle it almost tickled. Sansa sighed softly. This was nice...

After a small eternity Petyr's hands moved to her hair. He took up a strand and played with it. He let his fingers run through it. Slowly, strand by strand, he moved it all on on side until her neck was bare.

Sansa was wax in his hands. A voice inside her seemed to call out a warning to her, but it was too far away. All that mattered was right here, right now, all that mattered was Petyr. He leaned in and moved closer and closer to her neck...

And then he hesitated. “If I could, I would not do this,” he whispered, almost apologetically.

And something inside Sansa exploded with resolve.  _ Run. Now. _ She felt his lips on her neck. This was her last chance. Finally she found her strength again. She struggled free of his grip, but his hand caught hers and held it. She could not run away. But she would not give up. “Then don't do it, Petyr,” she said softly.

Petyr tightened his grip around her hand until Sansa thought he would crush it. But she ignored the pain. “Sweetling, I have to do this,” he said in a calm voice. “You know that.”

She determinately shook her head. “No, my love. Please.” Her eyes found his. “Let me go.”

Petyr closed his eyes, and Sansa could feel the struggle inside him.  _ Please _ , she thought to herself.  _ Please. Please let me go.  _ Finally Petyr opened his eyes again. Sansa had never seen him so sad.

“Go,” he whispered.

 


	10. Thrush

More than a month had passed since that fateful night in her father's garden. Sometimes Sansa wondered if it had all been a dream. Maybe she had imagined it all. Maybe her father was still alive, and Giacomo as well. Maybe Petyr was not real. It was a frightful thought.

She had not seen him again since then. Sansa was surprised how little she missed him during the day. It was so easy to distract herself. Now that she knew what had happened to her father Sansa finally allowed herself to have a social life again. She spent her days conducting the business and her nights fluttering from balls to operas to events all over the city like a thrush. Signora Pucelli was delighted how popular Sansa had become and how many men wooed her. And Sansa liked it more than she cared to admit. Although she would never actually consider marrying one of these men. They were all so... boring. What did they do all day but spend their parents' money and wrinkle their noses at everything? If she ever married a man, it would have to be someone who worked for a living and who had made something of himself. Like her father. Still, she enjoyed herself even in this company.

But at night, as soon as she lay in her bed with nothing to keep her company but the darkness, her thoughts circled back to Petyr. His last word still echoed through her mind.  _Go..._ Sansa could not stop thinking about it. Why had he hesitated? Why had he let her go? And why had it taken her so incredibly long to flee from him? Sansa wished she could ask him. She wished he would hold her in his arms again. She longed for him more than ever, in spite of who he was... Or maybe because of it. It was driving her insane.

Sansa fluffed up her pillow once more and rested her head on it. Maybe now she would finally be able to sleep. She sighed deeply. “Oh, Petyr,” she whispered into the darkness. “I wish you were here...”

“I am here,” replied a voice.

Sansa screamed.

He was at her side in an instant, putting his hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. “Shhh, sweetling,” he murmured. “Don't be afraid.”

Sansa panicked. He was dangerous, she reminded herself, he had come to kill her. She jumped up and tried to leap from her bed, to run for the door, far, far away... but her foot got entangled in her sheet and suddenly Sansa was falling, the floor rushing up to catch her. She tried to take a hold of something, anything, but all her hands grasped was empty air. She would have screamed if she had the time, but it was all too fast–

Sansa fell into Petyr's arms. She had no idea how he could have been there so fast, but he had caught her at the last moment. Now he was holding her close again, _so_ _close,_ finally... Sansa had almost forgotten how intoxicating his scent was, but now the memory rushed back to her with full force. But another memory rushed back to her as well, and a primal instinct in her awakened. She tried to struggle free of his arms, to push him away from her, but he pressed her to his body with one hand while his other hand moved to her face and firmly turned it toward his. “Sansa, look at me,” he asked her. “Please look at me.”

Sansa's eyes found his, and she was surprised how calm they were, how affectionate. “Please don't be afraid, sweetling,” he whispered. “I will not hurt you. I swear.”

His grip around her loosened enough so Sansa could run away. But she never did. She did not know why, but one look of his had somehow calmed the storm within her. Miraculously it had made her trust him. She knew she was safe with him. She sat back on her bed and clutched her blanket to her chest. “I never thought I would see you again,” she confessed.

Petyr sat down on the far end of her bed. “I never would have shown myself if you had not asked for me.”

“So you were here before?” asked Sansa, wary again.

Petyr smirked. “Occasionally.”

Sansa felt very naked all of a sudden. She pulled her blanket higher. “That is so wrong,” she scolded. “What did you do, did you watch me sleep?” The thought made her skin crawl.

“I never stayed long,” reassured her Petyr, as if that made it somehow better. “But I wanted to see you again.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Most people would have sent an invitation.”

“I am not like most people,” replied Petyr.

Sansa scowled at him. “That does not give you the right to invade my privacy like this, Petyr.”

He smiled at her ruefully. “The first time I came to finish what I should have finished in your father's garden.” He shook his head. “But I could not bring myself to do it, sweetling. As much as I knew I should.”

Sansa did not know how to feel about this. She arched an eyebrow. “So that is what you do? Steal into young women's bedrooms at night to bite them?”

Petyr chuckled. “I am afraid my life is much less glamorous than that.”

“Tell me about it.” The words escaped Sansa's lips before she had time to think about them. But as soon as she heard herself, she knew she had wanted to say them all along.

Petyr straightened the corner of her blanket absently. “There is not much to tell,” he answered in a low voice. “I live a relatively normal life.”

“You're a _vampire_ ,” reminded him Sansa. She had grave doubts that this amounted to a normal life.

Petyr looked at the moon for a long time before he replied. “I am. And I eat and drink, yet the food turns to ash in my mouth. I sleep, yet I am never tired. I have studied philosophy, medicine, law and theology, yet I will never work.” He looked at her. “And I court a beautiful woman, even though she will never be mine.”

Sansa did not allow herself to think about his last sentence. She looked at Petyr, cold and analytical. “And you kill people,” she stated.

Petyr nodded calmly. “I do. But I do not enjoy it. I do not detest it, either. I have accepted that this is the way of the world.”

Sansa thought about this for a moment. She was more confused than anything else. Petyr seemed so very composed. She had expected a man at war with himself. Instead he was sophisticated, mature, and intelligent. Sansa could not help but smile.

Petyr noticed it. “If I was not so modest, I would think I was the cause of that smile.” He smiled as well.

Sansa laughed. “Are you always replying with things you have already said before?”

Petyr chuckled. “Only if I can remember them.”

Sansa's laughter died after a few moments. Concern spread in her. This was nothing she should enjoy... She looked at Petyr. “Why is it so easy to talk to you, Petyr?” she whispered. “Why can't I hate you?”

Petyr's smile faded on his lips. He took her hand and softly kissed it, finger by finger. Every time his lips touched her skin Sansa lost her senses a little more. “Because we are so much alike, you and I,” he answered.

Sansa pulled her hand back. “No, we are not,” she objected. “We are as different as night and day.”

Petyr smirked, more slyly than he ever had before. He leaned closer. For a moment it seemed as if he wanted to kiss her, but before Sansa could decide how she felt about this she realized that was not his intention. “You keep telling yourself that, sweetling,” he murmured into her ear, close enough so Sansa could feel his breath on her skin. It sent a wave of desire through her body. Sansa was still trying to fight it back when Petyr suddenly stood up and took her hand. “May I see you again, my lady?”

She did not have to think about it. “Yes...” she breathed, unable to withstand his dark aura.

“I shall return tomorrow, my love,” he promised and kissed her hand. “Now sleep tight, sweetling.”

And then he was gone, just as suddenly as he had appeared. That night Sansa slept better than she had in months.

 

He returned the next night, just as he had promised. They talked and laughed and he held her hand for a long time, but he did not try to kiss her that night either. Before he left, he asked for her permission to come back. Sansa said yes.

And without further ado their ritual was born. Petyr would visit her at night, and he would talk about his life. Sansa soaked up everything he told her. She had never talked to a man half as interesting as Petyr. In turn Sansa would share every mundane detail of her day with him, hungry for his advice. Sometimes she had to wait a fortnight for her dark prince. Sometimes just a few days. But he always returned, and before he left he always asked if he could see her again.

After a few months Sansa summoned the courage to ask him what had been on her mind all this time. “Why do we always only... talk?”

Petyr's grin was full of mischief. “What else would you want to do, my lady?” His eyes roamed over her body hungrily, feasting on every curve, lingering on her breasts, focusing on her trembling lips.

Sansa felt herself blush. “I do not mean  _that_ ,” she replied, but as she said it she wondered if that was true. She quickly pushed the thought aside and fought back her guilt. “I meant...” It still felt so surreal to say it, as if a part of her still hoped Petyr was a mere mortal. “Why do you never bite me?”

Petyr absently trailed his fingers over her bare arm, just like always did. It awakened a passion in Sansa she had never thought she had, but she made herself look at him, waiting for his reply. When he spoke, his voice was soft as a kiss. “Because I do not want you to die.”

Sansa smiled sadly. “I will die eventually,” she reminded him.

Petyr shook his head. “I do not want to be the one taking your life.”

Sansa wondered why she did not feel entirely happy about that.

“I could transform you, of course,” continued Petyr. “But that would only be successful if you wanted it.”

Suddenly it dawned on Sansa. She instinctively moved away from Petyr. “So this is why you are here? To make me... want it?”

Petyr said nothing for a while. “It is, isn't it?” asked Sansa. “You come here, and you seduce me, and you hope that one day I will let you transform me, so I can... so I can...” She had no idea how to finish that sentence.

“So you can be with me, my love,” explained Petyr softly.

Sansa's mind raced. Why was everything Petyr said so confusing? A part of her was jubilant.  _Do it now, let him do it, be with him..._ But her mind was stronger. She had so much to live for. And Petyr was just a man. It was just love. She took a deep breath until she was certain she had her desire under control.

That night, when Petyr asked her if he could come back, Sansa told him no. And just like that she was free of him.

 


	11. Swan

The fire was not much later. It started somewhere at the docks and spread until half the city was aflame. The next morning the sun rose over ashes and death.

Sansa rushed to the harbor as soon as she heard of it. Her palazzo had been spared, but three ships of her fleet were lying at the docks. When she got there, they were gone.

“Burnt, all burnt,” a carabiniere told her. “What had they loaded? We are still trying to determine where the fire started.” He looked at her eagerly.

Sansa tried to remember it. They had come from India only yesterday. “I don't know,” she confessed. “I think one of them had mainly spices. The other one cotton, I think.” She thought about this for a moment. “Yes, definitely cotton.”

The carabiniere made a note in his notebook. “Thank you, signora.” He turned away.

“Wait!” called Sansa. “What am I supposed to do now? All my ships are gone and all my wares... I have buyers to satisfy and orders to fulfill...” Her voice became more and more desperate.

The man looked at her and furrowed his eyebrows. “Why don't you ask your husband?” he suggested. “It's his business. What man would send his wife in a situation like this, anyway?”

Sansa felt herself get irrationally angry with the man. “This is _my_ business,” she snapped. “And I do not have a husband. I do not _want_ a husband.”

“Those are mad times we live in.” The man shook his head. “Business is no place for a woman. This fire has done you a favor, signora. Now you do not have to strain that pretty little head of yours with things you do not understand.”

Sansa slapped him across the face. “I understand these things, signor,” she hissed. “And I will complain about you to your chief. I hope he dismisses you. Then _you_ will not have to strain that head of yours with things _you_ do not understand.”

The carabiniere simply laughed and turned to his colleague. “That woman needs to find herself a husband to teach her some manners.”

Sansa felt the urge to slap him again. But that would not have helped her. She had so much to do now. A thought pushed into her mind with all its might, but she forced it away. She could not think about this. She could not panic until she knew. She could not give up hope, not now... Sansa ran the entire way home as if she was being chased by demons.

At home she rushed to her desk. She did not take off her cloak or say good morning to Signora Pucelli, she did not even close the door behind her. She had to make sure, now. With trembling fingers she opened her book. It had to be written somewhere here, anywhere... She had to have made a note... But she found nothing. So she opened the next book, frantically scanning the pages for a hint. Nothing.

“No, no, no,” she murmured to herself. “No, this is not possible, I could not have forgotten...” She dug through everything on her desk, shoving aside the glass swan that served as her paper weight. It fell to the floor and shattered, but Sansa barely noticed it. She turned over every piece of parchment, opened every book on her desk. “It has to be here, somewhere...” But she found nothing.

More and more desperately she rushed to her shelves and pulled out the books from last year. She kneeled on the floor with the first book on her knees, flipping through the pages while muttering curses under her breath. This was her last hope... And sure enough Sansa found what she had been looking for, an entry on the twelfth of November of last year: _“2 o'clock: Signor Rossi – negotiate new terms for insurance._ ” The entry was crossed out. Next to it stood in Sansa's hand: “ _Signor Rossi ill! Reschedule!_ ”

Sansa let the book fall to the floor as the realization hit her. She had never rescheduled.

Signora Pucelli found her sitting on the floor a few hours later. Sansa was staring into nothingness out of empty eyes. Of her five ships, three were ruined, and with them their cargo. And none of them had been insured. She looked at this woman who had raised her, who cared for her, who had become her closest confidant. “It is bad,” was all she could whisper before her voice abandoned her.

Her governess sunk to her knees next to Sansa. “I'm sure it is not the end of the world, child.” She took her hand affectionately.

Sansa shook her head. “All my money was on those ships. These wares were so valuable. I had buyers for them willing to pay a small fortune. And now...” Sansa felt fiery rage rise within. It was not fair. Had she not been through enough pain? She swallowed hard. “Now I have nothing. And it is all my fault.” She spat the words as if they were poisonous.

Signora Pucelli gently stroked Sansa's hair. “It's not your fault, Sansa. The fire destroyed it. That could have happened to anyone. The ships are insured, you will not have any losses.”

Sansa hated being consoled now. She did not want her governess's pity. Abruptly she jumped to her feet. “No, they were not!” she called. “They were not insured because I was too stupid to reschedule the appointment with Signor Rossi!”

Fear danced in Signora Pucelli's eyes. “What? You cannot be serious...”

“Yes, I am!” cried Sansa. “I am telling you the truth. I have lost everything.”

There. She had said it. Her fears had become reality. All because of her stupid mistake. Sansa had never been more furious at anyone in her entire life. How could she have been so blind? “The carabiniere was right.” Sansa laughed madly. “Business is no place for a woman. So what am I doing here, pretending?” She took up her books. “I may as well destroy this! It's worthless now!” She tore out a page. The noise of the paper being ripped from the binding sounded like music to her ears. So she tore out another page. “I may as well get rid of the evidence of my failure!” Blind rage took hold of her. She ripped the book to pieces. It felt so good, so liberating. Sansa spun around, rushed to her desk, took everything she could get a hold of. “I should burn this!” she laughed. “Just like my ships! I should cleanse myself of this!” Sh loved this idea. Yes, she decided, she would burn it all. The thought made her smile. She reached for another book to tear, another glass to shatter, but instead caught Signora Pucelli's hand.

Her governess grabbed her firmly by the shoulders. “Signorina Stark!” She shook her violently. “Stop this madness! Your father would be ashamed of you!”

 _He would be ashamed of me_ , Sansa realized suddenly. The thought replaced her rage with a deep sadness. She looked around herself. The entire office was ravaged. It looked like the storm itself had wreaked havoc in the room. The sheer force of her fit hit her with full force. Sansa had behaved shamefully. She sighed deeply and looked at her governess. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

Signora Pucelli smiled affectionately. “Never say that business is no place for a woman. It is not true. You know as well as I do that this mistake could have happened to anyone. Now listen to me!” She looked at Sansa, her eyes full of gravity. “Rage, if you must. Cry, if you want to . But do it while making arrangements to navigate out of this situation.”

Sansa merely nodded. The shame over her behavior burned on her cheeks. “You are in a frightful state,” observed Signora Pucelli. “I will draw you a bath. And after that you will get down to business, signorina.” With those words she rushed out of the room, her skirt swirling behind her.

Sansa had to smile beside herself. “What would I do without you, Signora Pucelli?” she asked softly. “You are right... I can at least try to find a way out of this.”

 

In the following days Sansa worked harder than she had in her entire life. She managed to appease some of her creditors and took out a loan. From the money she bought wares at horrendous prices, but that was a sacrifice she had to take. At least she could satisfy some of her buyers. She made a loss, but she upheld her reputation of reliability.

It all depended on these weeks. Sansa knew she was dancing on rotten ice, but she was determined not to fall. She saved money wherever she could, she found new vendors and new buyers, she took out insurance for her remaining ships. More often than not she fell asleep at her desk and woke up the next morning, her back and neck stiff with pain. She hardly noticed how much weight she lost. After a month she had to sell her father's cottage by the sea. It almost broke her heart, but she told herself to focus on her goal. When she had made enough money she would buy the cottage back.

The only business partner who had absolutely no sympathy for her was the man who had bought more from her over the years than anyone else. Sansa hated him. He was old and fat and mean. Every time she talked to him, his stink of perfume made her gag. But she could not put this off, she told herself. She could not let him wait. So she sighed deeply and climbed in the carriage that delivered his orders. Sansa wanted to hand the wares over herself. She steeled herself for a dreadful afternoon.

Her preparations had not been enough, she soon realized. Signor Caligna grimaced as he saw her climb out of the carriage. He checked his pocket watch. “Late again, Signora Stark,” he observed. “I expected you here an hour ago.”

“Please forgive me, signor.” Sansa curtsied in front of him. “There was more traffic than we had anticipated.”

“Excuses, nothing but excuses...” complained Signor Caligna. “Now come, deliver my wares, before I change my mind and find another seller.”

Sansa spent three hours supervising the shipment, and Signor Caligna complained the entire time. When the last box had been unloaded, he turned to her. “Listen, signora. The only reason I am still in business with you is because your father has never disappointed me. I cannot say the same about you. If there are any more problems, you will lose my business. Is that clear?”

“Yes, signor,” replied Sansa, her palms sweaty with nervousness. “It will never happen again. You have my word.”

“Good,” grumbled her customer.

 

Sansa was working harder than ever to keep her word. She could not remember the last time she had slept in or watched the sunset or the last time she had not eaten at her desk. And she still had not made a profit since the fire. The entire market was one-sided now, with much too much demand and little supply. The purchase prices were killing her. And she could not demand higher prices than her competitors. That would mean the end of her business all the more.

Sansa was struggling to make sure Signor Caligna's new order would reach him in time. She had never been at the harbor so often, asking about the weather, demanding estimations when her ship would return with the new goods. Every time the harbormaster saw her he brought her a cup of tea. “You have to slow down, signora,” he would beg her. “You are killing yourself. Please consider your health.” But Sansa ignored his pleas. Sometimes she wondered when her life had started to evolve around the fat whale that was Signor Caligna. But she clung to the hope that one day she could make the business profitable again, and get rich off his orders. It was all she allowed herself to dream.

That dream shattered four weeks later. Sansa had to deliver the order to Signor Caligna the next day. But the wares still had not reached her. A storm had held up her ship somewhere, and now it would be delayed for another fortnight. When Sansa heard these news something in her gave up. “It's not possible,” she told Signora Pucelli that night. “I will never be able to make the business profitable again. Tomorrow I will have to disappoint Signor Caligna, and then he will find another vendor.” She laughed bitterly. “The sad truth is, I cannot blame him. I would do the same.”

Her friend looked at her seriously. “And then, Sansa? What will you do then?”

“I don't know,” admitted Sansa. She had never asked herself what she would do if she could not make the business profitable again. All she had done was work and struggle. After a few weeks she had forgotten how her life used to be, how many balls and events she had once attended. After a few weeks she had accepted that her life was nothing but work and sleep and sacrifices left and right, every day. She could not imagine what her life would be like if she gave that up. Sansa sighed. “I might have to sell the business,” she confessed. “Although I doubt I will get much money. Still, it might be enough to pay my creditors. Then I would not have to sell the house...” The thought of selling her palazzo frightened her more than anything. This was her home. She could not bear the thought of leaving here. Tears welled up in her eyes. Sansa looked at her governess. “May I be excused?” She fought to be strong now, to hide her sadness behind her courtesy. “I am very tired, and tomorrow will be a dreadful day. I should rest.” She did not wait for her governess to respond, she did not want her to see her tears.

In these past months Sansa had been too busy to stop and think about the hopelessness of her situation. There had always been work and a glimmer of hope, even if she never reached it. But now she realized that she might be defeated. And the tears that had welled up in her over the past months broke free. Sansa wanted nothing but to cry herself to sleep and hope she would somehow find a last bit of resolve tomorrow.

Her pillow was already wet with her tears when she hear his voice. “Don't be sad, my love.”

Or had she imagined it? She had not heard not heard his voice in so long... “Petyr?” she asked into the darkness, hopeful, frightened.

“I am here,” he whispered and appeared next to her. And everything came rushing back to her. Sansa remembered how much he meant to her. She felt so guilty, and so right. He sat down on her bed and smiled. “Let me comfort you, sweetling.” His voice lured her in. “Please.”

Sansa threw herself into his arms. It was so familiar, so intimate. She had never allowed herself to think about how much she missed him. But here, now, she realized that she had missed him every minute of every day since she had last seen him. “Why did you leave me alone?” she sobbed into his chest, unwilling to stop her tears. “I needed you...”

Petyr stroked her head. “I am here for you now, Sansa. I will never leave you again.”

His words filled her with more hope than she ever thought possible. “I missed you so much,” she confessed into the darkness. “I am so lost, Petyr...”

Petyr's hand moved to her hair and played with it. “You only feel lost until you realize you are free,” he murmured. “Come with me, Sansa. Nothing is holding you back now.”

Sansa looked at him, her tears drying on her cheeks. She was so tired. Everything seemed so easy all of a sudden. There was nothing she wanted more than to be whatever Petyr wanted her to be, as long as it meant she could finally rest. She felt herself nod.

Petyr's hand swiftly moved her hair on one side, all the while holding her gaze. Hunger burned in his eyes. “My love,” he murmured, his fingers gently trailing over her face. “I have been waiting for you for so long...”

Sansa closed her eyes and gave herself to him. She was his, she had always been his, and now she would let him claim her, and Petyr would take her from this world and into a better world, and her struggle of the last months would finally lie behind her... It was all she had ever wanted. She was ready to die for him.

Petyr's lips touched her skin. And suddenly Sansa found something in her, something that had been hidden for a long time. Now it broke free in her and filled her with resistance, drowned out all longing, tamed her desire, extinguished the flame within her. She pushed Petyr away and struggled free from his arms. “No,” she said, and it amazed her how certain she was. “I want to live. I want to keep trying.” She was absolutely certain. “I will save myself.”

Petyr opened his mouth to speak, but Sansa did not let him. “Go,” she commanded. “I do not need you. Go.”

 

 


	12. Starling

The carriage came to a halt. Sansa closed her eyes for a moment and summoned her strength. This was it. She would tell Signor Caligna she could not deliver his order. She would create her own downfall. There was no more time to stall it any longer. Sansa swallowed hard. These were her last minutes as a business proprietor. It felt so strange.

But the man who offered her his hand to help her out of the carriage was not the fat whale. It was a tall man, with sandy hair and deep, blue eyes. He was young, maybe three or four years older than her, and exceptionally handsome. There was something else about him that Sansa could not quite name, but whatever it was, she felt herself drawn to it. A soft laugh escaped her throat. “What a nice surprise! I do not believe I have had the honor of making your acquaintance?”

The man smiled and unveiled straight, white teeth. Sansa felt herself blush. He looked so very noble. “Harrold Hardyng,” he introduced himself. “Please, call me Harry. You must be Sansa Stark. Come, join me in my office. We have a lot to talk about.”

He offered her his arm, and Sansa took it. It was new and familiar all the same. He led her inside, and Sansa was surprised when he opened the door to Signor Caligna's office and sat down behind the fat whale's oaken desk. “You must ask yourself why I have come to meet you instead of Signor Caligna,” he began. “I am afraid I have bad news, Signora Stark. Signor Caligna died of a heart attack not long ago.”

Her dark horizon broke apart and a gleam of hope shone through. It warmed Sansa more than any day in the sun ever could have. She tried her best to look affected despite the relief soaring through her chest. “My condolences, signor.” She had to claw her hands into the cushion of her chair to stop herself from dancing through the room with joy. “Are you the executor of his testament?”

“I am his ward,” answered Harry, his voice husky. “I came back from London only yesterday. Signor Caligna has bequeathed the business to me, and I am afraid I am a little overwhelmed with the extent of his legacy. He must have been one of the most wealthy merchants in town–second only to your father.”

Harry's voice was so soft, his words so eloquent. His hands had absently rearranged some items on the desk while he was talking. He seemed somehow older than his years, but a part of him still seemed like a little boy. It awakened Sansa's interest. She smiled at him, and he smiled back at her. It lit up her world. “That may have been the case,” admitted Sansa. “But my father passed away a year ago. I have taken over his business.”

Harry instinctively took Sansa's hand. She was surprised how normal it felt, as if there was no other way than for him to reach out and entwine his fingers in hers. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “Not that you have taken over the business, that's wonderful. But I am sorry about your father.”

As if he had only just now realized where his hand was, he tried to pull it away. But Sansa tightened her grip. She did not want to let go of him. “Thank you,” she whispered.

For a while Harry just looked at her, and Sansa could almost feel his confusion, sense his struggle to decide what to do next. Finally he took a deep breath and said: “Wouyoulitohadinnerwime?”

Sansa look at him for a moment, speechless, trying to decipher what he just said. Finally she gave up. “Excuse me?”

Harry's cheeks were a little pinker than they had been before, Sansa noticed with a smile. “Dinner,” he stammered, the blush creeping up his neck. “Would you like to have dinner with me?” He nervously ruffled his hair. “I mean, to talk about the business. It seems to me that our predecessors were close business partners. I would like to continue this, uh, partnership. I mean, if you want to.”

Sansa looked at him, and his gaze nervously darted through the room before his eyes found hers. She was touched. The eloquent Harrold Hardyng who had made such a worldly impression when talking about the business, he was so flustered when it came to women, so inexperienced. It made him all the more endearing. She smiled at him. “I would love to.”

 

After the endless night of her past months Harry was like the sun itself, awakening feelings in Sansa she had long thought dead. He lifted a burden Sansa had not even realized she had carried with her. Suddenly she could breath again. Her spirits soared like a starling, free like the wind. Harry had come to her in her darkest hour, and helped her save herself. With his help Sansa made the business profitable again, and soon all her fears were nothing but a distant memory, like a dream fleeting in the first rays of the morning sun. With every passing day Sansa found herself a little more at home in the world.

Harry adored her. Sansa had become his queen, and he had become her entire world. She had never thought she could be so happy. They spent the summer falling in love, and the autumn being in love, and when the winter's first snow had painted the city white Harry sank to one knee in front of Sansa and asked her to be his wife.

Saying Yes had never been easier for her.

That night, alone in her bed, Sansa languished for her betrothed, this man who had become her friend, her lover, her prince. Her bed seemed softer now, the night sweeter, the air filled with music...

“Good evening, my love.”

His voice startled her. Sansa sat bolt upright. “No,” she said aloud, her voice firm and certain. “Go away.”

Petyr appeared out of the darkness, in that same sudden way he always had, and sat down on her bed again. It was as if the years turned to minutes. Sansa felt as if he had always been there, every night, tempting her in the moonlight, deliciously slowly stealing away her innocence. She felt her resolve crumble. “Please go away,” she whispered, but she was already having doubts this was what she wanted. She had missed his darkness, missed the doom he brought. He had made her dance at the abyss madly and confidently, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to dance for him once more. Only now she was afraid of falling. She swallowed hard. “Please. Go.” But her shaking voice gave away the lie in her words.

Petyr ignored her. “I have come to congratulate you,” he said with a smile.

Sansa just stared at him, unwilling to believe he was here, still trying to determine if this was a dream or a nightmare.

Petyr took her hand. “I hear you will get married, sweetling.”

Sansa pulled her hand away and struggled free from the covers. She could not sit on her bed while talking to him, it was too intimate, too familiar. It was too dangerous. The cold winter air made her shiver, but she did not care. She stood in the middle of her bedroom, tall and proud, and stared at Petyr out of furious eyes. “Why are you here?”

Petyr held her gaze. “You know why I am here, my love.”

Sansa instinctively took a step back until her back was against the wall. “I do not want you here,” she hissed. If she only said it often enough, maybe she would believe it herself.

“I doubt that,” responded Petyr softly. His eyes narrowed and stared at Sansa's engagement ring. He grimaced in disgust. “You want more than that, sweetling.”

Absolute fear coursed through Sansa's veins. Petyr had seen her ring. He was not supposed to see her ring... An inexplicable feeling of guilt made her take the ring off and put it on her bureau. Petyr watched her with a self-satisfied smirk. It made Sansa's skin crawl. But she could not bring herself to put the ring back on. She felt naked without it, but maybe that was how she was supposed to feel. Maybe it was her surrender to him. “Why are you here?” she asked him again, hoping this time he would give her an innocent answer, knowing he would not.

Petyr looked at her out of cold, hungry eyes, those eyes that were brighter than the sun and deeper than the ocean. Sansa felt herself drown in them, just like she always had. She thought of Harry, but he seemed blurred in comparison to the sheer darkness of Petyr's aura. It made her shudder with lust. Sansa fought it back. Petyr smiled knowingly. “I did not lie when I said I came to congratulate you, sweetling,” he responded. “I hope you will enjoy your time with Harry, as fleeting as it may be.” His gaze lingered on her, and it made Sansa feel as if he was staring right into her soul. “Your world is dying, Sansa,” noted Petyr coldly. “Do not get too attached to it.”

A terrible suspicion rose in Sansa. “No,” she said determinately. “No, Petyr. No, you cannot kill Harry.” She took a deep breath to conquer her panic. “I would never forgive you.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Petyr shook his head. “Tsk tsk tsk, my love. Is that what you think of me? Oh, I am hurt.” He dramatically clutched his hand to his chest, mocking her. “I would never take your loved ones, Sansa. I want you to come to me willingly.”

“That will never happen,” snapped Sansa, surprised at her own resilience. 

“I am a patient man.” His smirk was full of poise. In one swift motion he stood up from her bed and walked toward her, his gaze burning on her skin. Sansa could not turn away. Petyr came close enough that she could taste the scent of him again. It took all she had not to succumb to him then and there, but she forced herself to withstand. Petyr leaned closer until his mouth was inches away from her ear. “You may dance with thousands of men, sweetling,” he whispered in an ominous voice. “But your last dance belongs to me.”

And with that he grabbed her and spun her around, swirling her through the air to a music only he could hear.

Sansa shoved him aside. “No, Petyr!” Her voice was shrill, alarmed. “Leave me alone! Go! I can be strong without you,” she added defiantly.

Petyr trailed the outline of her lips with his finger. “You were only strong while you thought you were weak, my love,” he whispered. His hand moved to her chin all of a sudden, turning her face toward him. He leaned in and kissed her, just for a heartbeat. Before Sansa realized what had happened he broke off the kiss and escaped into the night.

He left her enraged and greedy, his kiss still burning on her lips.

 

 


	13. Crow

Sansa refused to think about that night. Maybe it had all just been a dream after all, she thought. After a few months she was almost certain of it.

Besides, she had other things to worry about. Her business was flourishing again, and Sansa and Harry worked hard to keep it that way. And then there was the wedding to plan... Sansa had never imagined she could be this happy with a man. This happiness was not a dark, gaping pit, consuming everything she was until all that was left was dark oblivion, a dying wasteland where she was his for all eternity... This happiness was real. It was as real as the life she lived, as real as the sun that kissed her awake each morning and the moon that watched over her when she slept. This happiness was gentle touches and loving smiles, it was building a life together, it was staying and fighting for a better world. This happiness was heated quarrels and passionate reconciliation, it was lively discussions until dawn and dozing off in the afternoon. This happiness was unfailing.

Their marriage was everything and more. The businesses long merged, Sansa and Harry built an empire together. It was the source of their power, the beginning of their legacy. It was theirs, and theirs alone, and no one came between them.

It was Signora Pucelli who had walked Sansa down the aisle on the day of her wedding, tears in her eyes. “You are grown up now,” she had whispered before kissing her on the cheek. “I will miss you, _cara_ _mia_.” But Sansa never left her old governess. How could she? Signora Pucelli had always been there for her. She was the only family Sansa had left. She would never leave her, Sansa had promised that.

Signora Pucelli had made no such promise. First it was a violent cold that took hold of her and left her bed-ridden for weeks. So Sansa left the business to her husband for a while to take care of her oldest friend. She brought Signora Pucelli soup, she called for the best doctors, she stayed at her bedside morning, day and night.

After a fortnight Harry asked Sansa into his study to share a cup of tea. Sansa followed his invitation reluctantly. She had no time for this... But Harry had insisted, so there she was, sitting on the canape with every muscle clenched, waiting for the first chance to get out and rush to her ailing friend.

Harry looked at Sansa for a long time. He seemed older now, Sansa realized, but she did not know what is was that made her notice it. He sighed. “Sansa, I miss you.”

_His eyes_ , Sansa suddenly realized.  _They look more tired now._ She took a sip of tea. “I am right here,” she reassured her husband.

Harry shook his head softly. “For now, maybe,” he said. “But I have not seen you for longer than five minutes in two weeks. You come to bed long after I have fallen asleep and rise before dawn.”

“Signora Pucelli–“ began Sansa, trying to make him understand.

“Signora Pucelli is ill, yes,” interrupted Harry. “And I would never ask you to stop caring for her. But you cannot forget all other responsibilities you have, darling. I cannot conduct the business all by myself. I need you.”

His words irked Sansa beyond belief. “Signora Pucelli needs me more,” she hissed coldly.

Harry seemed ever sadder now. “But she sleeps so much. What can you do for her when she sleeps?”

Sansa scowled at him furiously. “I can hold her hand!” She was almost screaming now, even though she had now idea why. “I can be with her! I can show her that I care!”

“And when will you show _me_ that you care?” Harry asked softly. The louder Sansa got, the more she raged, the calmer Harry became. She had always loved that about him. Now it was infuriating her.

“I married you!” Sansa responded. “You should already know that I care!” She was shaking so much now she spilled her tea. “Look what you've done!” she snapped.

“That wasn't me, darling,” replied Harry calmly.

Sansa could not take it any more. “You made me do it, then!” She jumped up, spilling even more tea. “Look, this dress is ruined now. I have to go change.” Finally she had an excuse to get out of here. She rushed out of the room, not bothering to look at her husband.

That night Sansa stayed with Signora Pucelli. She did not want to see her husband, she was too furious with him. She was sure he would realize how impossibly he had behaved sooner or later. Sansa was prepared to forgive him.

But Harry did not apologize anytime soon. It was the longest they had ever been angry with each other. For five days Sansa scowled at him, behaved moody and sulky around him, and did everything she could to make him realize that he had crossed a line. After a while Sansa realized that she may have treated Harry a little too harshly... But by then it was too late. She could not back down now, now she had to win this argument. So she continued being a nightmare. In all this time Harry treated her with nothing but love and patience. With every passing day it made Sansa want to scratch his eyes out a little more.

When Harry finally snapped it was a sunny Sunday afternoon. They had just arrived home after going to church. Sansa put her cloak away and headed toward her bedroom. “I will change and visit Signora Pucelli,” she told her husband, for the first time since their afternoon tea in a peaceable tone. She was finally tired of fighting. “I will try to be back home for dinner.”

That was the moment Harry chose to explode. “Do not bother,” he snarled in a cold voice. “I am lucky if you come home at all tonight.”

Sansa turned around to look at him. “What is  _that_ supposed to mean?” A part of her was glad this was happening. Maybe they needed a thunderstorm to clear the air. Maybe now they could finally reconcile. 

Harry was staring at her out of menacing eyes. “You are not going to see Signora Pucelli, are you?” he asked her, suddenly dangerously calm again.

That was enough to send Sansa into a fiery rage again. “Yes, I am!” she hissed. “What else would I do?”

“See Petyr,” replied Harry, calmer than ever. His voice could have cut steel.

It was as if he had slapped her. Every fiber of her being was alert. Blind fear took hold of Sansa. She swallowed hard.  _Calm down,_ she told herself. _This is getting dangerous. One wrong word and he will know._ She took a deep breath. “How do you know that name?” she asked in what she hoped was a casual tone.

“You are whispering it in your sleep at least once a month,” replied Harry matter-of-factly. “I always hoped it would stop, but it never did.”

Sansa's heart beat so loud she was sure her husband would hear. Yes, she still dreamt of Petyr every now and then, but she always felt horribly guilty the next morning. She wanted those dreams to stop. And she never would have wanted her husband to know. Sansa's palms were moist with sweat. She discreetly tried to dry them on her skirt. “I don't know what you are talking about,” she lied. “I have never heard that name in my entire life.” A faint blush crept up her neck, giving away the lie in her words.

Harry laughed bitterly. “Do not try to fool me, Sansa. I know you better than that.”

Sansa felt so guilty for lying to her husband. She had behaved horribly these past days. Harry was right, she should not have forgotten everything else over her worries for Signora Pucelli. And she should not have treated him so poorly these past days. Harry loved her, and she had taken his love for granted... Sansa felt worse than she ever thought she could feel.

“I am so sorry, my love,” she whispered. “You are right, I left you alone. I was a horrible wife to you.” She took a step toward Harry and flung her arms around him, desperately trying to make up for her behavior. She buried her face in his chest and breathed in the scent of him, so familiar and clean, so full of life. How much she had missed this! “Please forgive me,” she whispered between two breaths. She could never get enough of this. How could she have forgotten how much she loved her husband?

Harry grabbed her by the shoulders, gently but firmly, and pushed her away. “You still have to tell me something, my darling. Who is Petyr?”

Something in Sansa shattered when Harry denied her the comfort of his arms. Now she stood in the foyer of their palazzo, two feet away from her husband yet not daring to reach out and touch him. Sansa looked at Harry, desperately searching his face for a sign of affection. But all she saw was sadness and suspicion. She had never felt more alone in her entire life.

“Petyr is...” she began, determined to fix her broken marriage, determined to be honest. But what could she possibly say? She could not tell Harry the truth, he would never believe her. Sometimes Sansa did not believe the truth herself. “Petyr is no one,” she finally blurted. “He really isn't, and he doesn't matter to me, and I don't care about him. Please Harry, you have to believe me! Petyr was before I met you, before all of this, and...” She desperately searched for the right words. “He's small and insignificant compared to you.”

Harry's face had hardened. Sansa felt as if she was looking at a man of stone. “That's not good enough, Sansa,” he whispered sadly. Before Sansa could respond he turned away and fled into his study, locking out Sansa on the other side.

 

Sansa stayed with Signora Pucelli more and more in the following days. She only returned home long after her husband had gone to bed, and only if she was certain she was so tired that she would not dream. She was still ashamed and embarrassed she had whispered Petyr's name at night. She hated Petyr for still being so present, and she hated Harry for being awake and hearing her whisper. Most of all she hated herself. She would never forgive herself for defiling their marriage bed like this. Out of guilt she tried to avoid Harry as much as possible, denying herself the love of her husband as punishment. It made her feel alone and miserable.

Signora Pucelli knew nothing of Sansa's pain. Sansa wanted to be strong for her friend. Maybe, if she brought enough life and happiness to her old governess, it would make her get better. Sansa clung to that hope. And when Signora Pucelli was better, she would fix her marriage. One step at a time. Sansa would navigate through this, she always had. The worst was behind her now, now everything would get better.

 

Signora Pucelli died on a Wednesday. Sansa could not believe it. If anything, her friend should have died on a Sunday, on a holy day. It would have shown her that god cared. But on a Wednesday? This stupid day, in the middle of everything, so terribly out of place. It was the most shameless thing of all. Blind, senseless rage filled Sansa over this insolence. How could god have been so brazen?

It seemed as if Signora Pucelli's death had finally made Harry forgive Sansa for whispering another man's name. He was at her side again, he was the shoulder Sansa could lean on when her grief was too much to bear. He loved Sansa again, but his love had come with a price. Sansa had not wanted to pay it. She still kept him at bay; she could not bear the thought of him seeing her at her most vulnerable. She planned Signora Pucelli's funeral alone, moving through the city's fog like a ghost, her tears hidden beneath a black veil. Maybe because death was ever so present in her life these days, she missed Petyr more than ever. Guilt and confusion her only allies, Sansa began to avoid her marriage bed. She did not trust herself to be Harry's loyal wife, not now. Maybe the feeling would return when all of this was over. Maybe their love would blossom again, like flowers after a long winter. It was her only hope.

But by the time it was over Sansa had gotten so used to Harry's absence in her life that she began to wonder why she had ever needed him. She still loved him deeply. That was the problem. How could she ever be the wife he deserved? How could she ever revive the happiness she had once thought immortal? Afraid of failing him, Sansa gave up trying.

Harry noticed it at once. One rare evening they spent together he suddenly took her hand, and it was so unexpected that Sansa flinched. Harry's nails dug deep in her skin, and his eyes found hers, pleading. “Why are you wearing black today, my love?”

Sansa had not worn any other color in a long time. First she was mourning Signora Pucelli, then she was mourning her marriage, and before long it had become the color of her soul. She looked at her husband out of tired eyes. “I do not know,” she whispered. “This is the only color that makes sense to me.”

Harry still clung to her hand as if he was drowning and Sansa was the only person who could save him. “It is because you are closer to the dead than to the living, darling,” he observed sadly. “You have become a crow.”

Sansa knew he was right.

That night she tried to prove Harry wrong. She stayed with him, she listened to his empty words and replied with witty remarks, she even let him make love to her for the first time in a long time. Harry softly called her name when he came undone under her, and afterwards he held her in his arms and gently kissed her forehead. “I am so glad I have you back,” he murmured softly. “I love you so much.”

Sansa said nothing. It had been easy to fool him for one night, but she could not do this one moment longer or she would go mad. She waited until Harry had fallen asleep and wound free of his grip. Naked she crossed the room and found a robe. She put it on and walked on the balcony. “Petyr?” she whispered into the night.

It was as if a power beyond her control had led her here. Sansa could not remember making the decision to call for the man she loved, but now she knew it was what she desperately needed. “Petyr?” she whispered again, a little louder this time.

And he heard her. He appeared out of pure nothingness, as he always did. Finally it was all so clear. Sansa had made him wait for all this time, and yet he had never left her. He had always been the answer, no matter the question. She had always meant to be his. “Take me, Petyr,” she whispered. She was so certain, so sure of this.

But Petyr did not move. He just looked at her, his eyes cold and scrutinizing. Sansa felt naked despite her robe. It was as if he was staring into her soul. She felt small and unworthy before him. She had never felt more right. But Petyr did not move. “Please...” she whispered, growing desperate and needy.

Petyr's steely glance kept her at a distance. “Do you think I want you like this, sweetling?” He grimaced in disgust. “You smell of him, my love. His seed is dripping down your legs. Did you think I would not notice it?”

Sansa blushed, ashamed. “No...” she tried to answer, but the word caught in her throat.

Petyr continued. “I love you, Sansa, but–“

Sansa did not let him finish. “Please, Petyr,” she begged. Hot tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Please... I am so tired of living like this, my love. Please, take me...” She threw herself in his arms, trying to make him understand how desperately she needed him, but Petyr pushed her away.

“No, sweetling. I want you, but not like this.”

The way Petyr had grabbed her by the shoulders, the way he had shoved her aside, it reminded Sansa of another time a man had refused her. She had felt just as alone then as she did now. But if there was anything she had learned from it it was that somehow she could find it in her to struggle on, and it would get easier and easier over time. She could become the girl she once was, the girl who lived freely and danced madly and lit up the night with laughter. Sansa looked at Petyr, and finally her eyes sparkled again, with defiance and strength. “How dare you?” she asked him in a menacing voice. “How dare you refuse me? After all this time?”

With every word she uttered she became fiercer. She had finally found a way to let it all out, her anger and her pain and her grief. “How dare you?” She was almost screaming now, raging madly against him, against the night, against the darkness surrounding them like black velvet. “I needed you, and you left me alone?” His insolence infuriated her beyond belief. “I don't need you any more!” She was gesturing wildly with every word she said. It did not take long until the knot on her robe slid open. In an instant the wind was there, tugging at her robe, trying to take it from her. Sansa was naked underneath, but she stood tall and proud. Her robe might be open, but she would not let it go. She had given the night enough. This one, it would not take.

Petyr was watching her with his mysterious smirk, this smirk that had followed Sansa into her dreams. His cloak was swirling through the air just like her robe, and for a moment it looked ridiculously significant, the way they were standing there, staring at each other out of cold, hungry eyes, his cloak dancing behind him and her robe behind her. The thought made Sansa want to retch.

“I hate you,” she told Petyr in a cool, grave voice. It felt so good to say it, it felt so good to lie to him, to hurt him the same way he had hurt her. “I hate you,” Sansa repeated, louder and surer this time.

Petyr smiled sadly. “No, you don't,” he replied in a soft, thoughtful voice. “But it would be so much easier if you did.” And with that, he was gone.

Sansa stood on the balcony, defying the wind, defying the cold, defying her longing for Petyr. She would not move, she swore herself, she would stand there until the night had taken it all from her, her sadness, her grief, her faults, and filled her with new resilience.

Sansa let the wind transform her until dawn. With the first rays of the rising sun she crawled back to bed and finally fell asleep in the arms of her loving husband.

 


	14. Mockingbird

When he moved out it was a relief. Had Sansa really expected them to fall in love again, to somehow put the past behind them as if it had never happened? Had she really thought that this one night, raging against the wind, would change everything?

It had not changed anything, even if Sansa had so hoped it would. But the abyss inside her was too steep. Sansa had clung to her love for Harry, clung to her failing marriage, and in the end she had just dragged it down with her.

Harry had moved back to London a short time later. He took his part of the business with him. Suddenly Sansa was alone again, and this time she did not even have Signora Pucelli. So she drowned herself in work and social events. And she was surprised to find out how much she still enjoyed it. She had left far too many responsibilities to her husband. Now the business was hers again, and hers alone. Sansa finally had a reason to get out of bed in the morning. The success of her business was  _her_ success. Before long, Sansa was happy again. She was not a naive child any more, she was a woman now. She had lived through blissful happiness and dreadful darkness, and she had learned that neither was eternal.

There was only one feeling that had never changed, one shudder of lust still haunting her at night, one question unanswered.  _Petyr._

Sansa had long bought back her father's cottage, so she sold the palazzo were she and Harry had been happy and moved there. She moved into Signora Pucelli's old apartment for a while, she traveled from Nice to Nuremberg to Paris and back again. But the memory of Petyr's kiss on her lips, his faint taste of mint, the flaming desire between her legs, it followed her.

After a year of running Sansa moved into her father's old palazzo again, her palazzo. The place where she had grown up. Petyr's memory was more present here than anywhere else. After a while she could not withstand the temptation any longer. She started calling for him, wandering around the empty house at night like a ghost. But he never came.

 

***

 

It was the first night of autumn, Sansa could feel it in her bones. She had been up far too late, first overseeing a shipment from India, then meeting some acquaintances at the opera. A drink had followed, and then another one, and when Sansa stumbled into her house that night it was long past midnight. She quickly slipped into her nightdress and went to bed, and a deep dreamless sleep embraced her.

Sansa woke up two hours later in the depths of night.  She felt his eyes on her. She wasn't sure how she knew it, but she was sure he was there, in the darkness. Watching her. She had to smile. Finally her dark prince had come. A deep feeling of accomplishment took root inside her. She knew it was time. 

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Every beating of her heart reverberated in her chest like the echo of a song. It seemed to  dictate her every move, wash out all caution. Her trembling hands grasped the sheet that covered her and, in one swift motion, pulled it away. The crisp autumn air made her shiver. Or was it her excitement? She didn't know. Without hesitating, she sat straight upright and let her legs dangle from her bed, feeling for her velvet slippers in the darkness. Her father had given them to her before he had disappeared. It had led her to Petyr. And now the slippers would carry her to him... It only seemed right.

The short distance to the balcony seemed to stretch for miles, but she carried her sheet determinately. She knew the parapet was wide enough for her to stand on it. She climbed it, fearlessly. Venice lay below her now, cloaked in darkness and mysteries. The dim lanterns in the streets were not enough to light the city, but she still knew it was there. Her city. Her father's city. She had never felt more free.

 

Then Sansa Stark lifted her sheet high above her head and let go, a sacrifice to the night, her offering to the darkness. The cotton caught the wind and danced through the air, swirling through the night like a ghost of her past. Sansa watched it with a cryptic smile. She did not need it any more. The sheet had warmed her during cold nights, shielded her from unwanted eyes, covered her softly. As if it could protect her from all terrors of the night. But she knew it could not. Nothing could protect her from him.

Sansa stood on her parapet, letting the wind take hold of her. It threw itself against her with full force, but she stood unmoved, soaking up the wicked gifts the night had to offer. The wind tore on her silk nightdress, lifting the skirt up from time to time, but she paid it no mind. Nobody could see her except for him.

Long after the sheet had vanished in the darkness, she felt the cold. Her hard nipples were barely covered by the silk fabric of her nightdress. Her hands and feet felt like ice. Shuddering, she climbed down from the parapet and turned around. “I have been waiting for you.”

He smiled. “Patience is a virtue.”

The world crumbled around her until all she could see was him. His features were softened in the darkness, but his deep, blue eyes shimmered like sapphires. The grey streaks in his hair reflected the moonlight and seemed to throw it back at her a thousand times over. The black cloak around his shoulders danced through the night just like her sheet had done, but the wind could not take it from him, as much as it tried. As if he was reveling in this victory over the wind, his soft lips were curled into a smirk.

Sansa had never seen such beauty. There was no more hesitance. She threw herself in his arms and breathed in the scent of him, the scent of freedom and death. He took her in his arms and wrapped his black cloak around them, and so they stood as one.

It seemed like a lifetime had passed until she dared speak again. “I know why you are here.”

His eyes found hers, warm and sincere. The wind swallowed his words, but Sansa heard them all the same. “Do you, now?”

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Every beating of her heart reverberated in her chest like the echo of a song. Her trembling hands grasped her hair and, in one swift motion, pulled it away. He moved closer until she could feel his breath on her bare neck. Sansa closed her eyes. “I do.”

A smile lit up Petyr's face. He had never looked at Sansa more affectionately. Petyr took her face in his hands and gently trailed his fingers over her soft skin. “My love,” he murmured. “I have withstood storms of time to find you.”

Sansa was trembling in his arms. She could not wait any longer. Her eyes found his, and she smiled. “I am only mortal,” she reminded him. “I cannot say the same.”

Petyr held her gaze for a moment and smiled enigmatically. Sansa slightly nodded. She was ready.

And then he claimed her. When he fangs pierced her soft skin it was sheer agony, but she did not budge. He held her in his arms, safe and sound, and finally she felt at home. As he took her life's blood from her the agony vanished and was replaced by pure ecstasy , racing through her veins until Sansa was in a delirium of joy she thought would never end. The world around her was ablaze.  She was consumed by fire, and born again in the flames.

When he had stilled his thirst she was weak and feeble, but her lips were smiling. Sansa let herself fall in his arms, knowing he would catch her. Petyr picked her up as if she was a feather and held her in his arms. All of Venice lay below them. Sansa had never thought she could feel so at peace with the world.

Petyr leaned in to kiss her, and Sansa tasted her own blood on his lips. It was the sweetest taste. She answered his kiss with a soft moan.

Her dark prince smiled. “Easy, sweetling,” he whispered. “Wait until you are stronger. After all...” He planted the softest kiss on her lips again. “We have all the time in the world.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone of you who left kudos and comments, who talked to me about my fic on tumblr and who supported me in any way! Every single one of you put a smile on my lips and I am glad that you guys have stayed with me. xx


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